Explaining My Complex Relationship with the Moon to Mormon Missionaries

Just kidding, I did not do that.

The first time a Mormon missionary asked, "Do you mind if I ask what you do believe in?," I made the mistake of trying to answer honestly. Sure, I was sweaty from gardening and a little sun-dazed, not at my most articulate, but whatever I babbled ("I'm just trying to, like, vibe with the essence of all matter, you know?") did seem to finally cross me off the Potential Converts list. This past weekend, a full year after the previous exchange,  I was housesitting, watering a friend's garden (note: the front garden remains a weak structural point in our missionary avoidance protocols) when I participated in a nearly identical exchange.

I declined a Scripture reading (a simple "I'd rather you didn't" did the trick) and managed a vague, more-or-less honest answer to the prodding on my spiritual beliefs: "It's actually very personal." True, but still vaguely open. In a return to my tradition of vague, nervous babbling, a final dismissal: "You do you, but it's not going to happen." 

I had spent the previous day–the summer solstice and a full moon–observing some aspects of the closest thing to a consistent spiritual practice I have. A couple of dear friends organized a strawberry-themed picnic (for the Strawberry Moon) and a simple, blanket-strewn outdoor craft circle. We used the sun of the longest day to make cyanotypes. When I got home, I did my usual full moon routine. None of it was discernible as church-like, or as identifiably purpose-driven as a door-to-door mission. It did, however, help me "like, vibe with the essence of all matter."

My explanation for my spiritual beliefs is so vague because my own understanding of them is vague. I know a lot of things I don't believe in (a God that wants men to be in charge of everything, a hierarchy that puts humans over every other living thing, guilt for existing), but don't often articulate the spiritual aspects of what I believe. As a chronic searcher, I will probably keep adding to my understanding of the more-than-visible aspects of our world and universe until I am no longer here. (See how vague??) What I do have, more than a comprehensive philosophy, is a growing and changing set of practices that help me make it through existence in a strange and often unnecessarily oppressive world. 

A big part of what I need is exactly what I got from that peaceful solstice gathering with friends. A reminder that, yes, time is passing, but that I can be present within its passage. Like so many people I know, I have been brainwashed by productivity culture. I have large goals for myself (which, yes, remain far too tied into my sense of self-worth) and am slowly learning how to chip away at them rather than delude myself into thinking they can be accomplished in a single calendar year, or by a version of myself that's perfectly optimized. 

I wrote a while ago about some of this as it relates to time, specifically to "lost time," but want to share now one of the many practices that has helped me resituate myself into time, tasks, and an observant life. 

Something about the Sunday through Saturday procession of stacked squares on the calendar started grinding me down years ago. The container of a week was not long enough to navigate the swirl of desires, obligations, demands, and pleasures that life required and they seemed to too-quickly flip over to another page, another month with another to-do list undone! Maybe the moon could save me. Watching it wax and wane, when I started to do so more consciously, felt calmer than watching the pages of the calendar flip. With this in mind, I started exploring different types of calendars, hoping to find a lunar calendar that would fit my needs. When I realized the thing I imagined didn't exist, I started thinking about how to make my own. 

one of the many calendars I bookmarked in this Are.na channel

I looked at calendars from many cultures and many eras, thought about seasonal symbolism in the places where I live, and thought through what type of shape the 28 days of a lunar cycle might take. There were many circles (because, as I might have explained to the Mormons, everything is ultimately, like, a circle), carved into stone or inked onto paper. Wheels of the year, turning across images of plants, stars, and other ways the natural world marks time. A circle made sense for the entire year, but I settled on a wave, cresting and falling, for a single moon. 

the current iteration in action at my desk

I made a draft of one month, and then the next. I got better (slightly) at digital collage. I explored the incredible bank of public domain images (particularly at Public Domain Review) and learned about different symbols for months, moons, and seasons. I got to know the guy at Kinko's who helped me get my formatting right, eventually. My arcane system of habit tracking took shape, little blocks of colorful highlighter and pen marking the days. I started looking at the New Moon as a reset for the month, even if it took place on the 6th day of a month and watching the days swell and fill alongside the moon. Bills still came with the change of the month, but measurements of "progress" and points of focus began to shift into this other timeline. The gentler shape really worked on my mind. 

Now, the extremely bare-bones practice I've had for years could be echoed back to me from the simple tool of the wall calendar. Setting an intention at the New Moon–either something more internal like this month's "be lighter" or something tangible like "finish 'x' writing project" puts the wheel in motion and gives a grounding to the passage of time. I don't have to think about everything, just this one thing. The Full Moon, in the view of many, is for manifestation–a word with a lot of baggage related to privilege, mental illness, and whiteness–and for me, that means an opportunity to, sure, make magic, but also to course-correct and re-focus on the intention at hand. On the calendar, at least, it's all downhill from there and then I review and begin again. 

It isn't much, but it works! I don't really feel qualified or drawn to write in detail about my very minimal Tarot practice, but it's built into this cycle as well. In sharing about these small rituals of attention, I've been able to connect with other people who practice similar, or at least overlapping, forms of marking time. I'm lucky to have a neighbor who hosts solstice parties and friends who want to collect dandelions for wine on Beltane. It isn't "traditional" or perfect or complete or organized, my patchwork spiritual practice. And while I hope to better connect with some of the pre-colonial practices of my own ancestors at some point in the future, for now I am enjoying just feeling it out, creating, re-discovering, and collaging what makes sense and feels good into simple guidance that helps me survive in our deeply disorienting society. 

In my moments of "oh shit, it's almost July! Summer is over! I missed everything and I'm late to the party and it's going to be so dark, and I didn't even write three books yet!" I can pause and realize, hey, there's actually six days left until the New Moon and maybe I can handle a small bite of it all before then. 

This was just my own little project for myself, but when other people saw it, many of them were interested. I was flattered, but not prepared to make any more. After a year and more interest, I decided to do a test printing of a full version for last month's zine fest.

Email me for a copy <3

Now, if you want to see what the lunar life fuss is about, one can be yours for the low, low price of "make me an offer and cover shipping!" (I printed too many and I would rather share them than have them languish in a box.) And if it's not your thing, that's fine. I'd love to hear what little ways of marking time and growth work for you. 

Email me for a calendar and I'll be back in July with some long, wild thoughts about how much I hate the AI-ification of everything. 

<3