Writing Around the Phases of the Moon

As I sit down to write, burning through my typical one-hundred-reasons-not to, I am struck by the energy of the coffee shop around me. It’s 2 p.m. on a Monday. The woman next to me looks normal enough, but there’s a flare of something wild in her eyes, like she hasn’t blinked in a while. The man behind the counter, ruddy from the August heat, smiles just a little too big at the next customer. Someone is jumping from foot to foot as they wait for the toilet. Someone else has begun laughing maniacally; at something on their phone, presumably, but also perhaps at nothing at all. ( How Poetry Can Animate Narrative Nonfiction .) It’s a full moon, and we’re all a little unhinged. I wasn’t always attuned to the workings of the moon, beyond a passive appreciation for beauty. Plus, once a month, it felt great to be able to open my front door in the dark without the use of a flashlight. Looking back, it’s funny how few of us read into the moon as an active force in our lives; we see what happens to the tides during a new and full moon, note the drastic changes, and yet utterly disregard that we—who are made of 70% water—might experience a similar tug and pull. Typically human, blinders on, I-am-an-island-and-so-is-my-mood behavior? Maybe. But unlike our ancestors, many of whom kept a tight eye on the moon out of agrarian necessity, we’ve been able to lose track of planetary motions. Perhaps it’s because late stage capitalism has taught us to override our cycles, to power through at all costs, and buy whatever superfood will give us more stamina in the mornings? Or perhaps we are overidentified with having high energy. And even energy has its limitations. When I first began assembling the pieces of my book, Cancer Moon , I was focused mostly on the astrological implication. My natal moon is in the sign of Cancer the crab, which gives me a tendency toward, how shall we say, a bit of moodiness? (Flash to the scene in […]

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