The moon waxes full. Winter has settled in. I can tell because my thoughts have turned toward the garden: starting seeds, what i’ll be planting, where what will go, repairing the greenhouse door, and all things involving growing. This cold season is so tremendous in its ability to bring out life force, even though everything is bare, barren, leafless. In the dormancy of apple trees and lilacs, buds are visible, evoking images of the spring to come. On warm days the bluebirds and cardinals are seen pecking at the ground in the vegetable patch, eating off the sunflowers left uncut from last year. On the coldest, windiest of days, the chickadees come bravely out, undetterred by falling snow, to eat seed out of the feeders left hanging from branches. The creative force is strong in the short days. Ideas come and get turned about, the spirit takes flight at the potential for doing in the year to come.
This waxing and waning of the moon, an interesting phenomenon within my wombanly life. I bleed with her, my feelings tumultuous on those infertile days before the blood flows. A reflection of my own barren womb, the lack of life taking hold within me. Then the flow and the full moon cometh, in which I am lush and vibrant again; an egg waiting to be fertilized. Creation stirring within. In the absence of conception I can harness the vital energy and put it to use in other ways. Yet again comes that period of dying, shedding, in which I am reminded of the departing egg, empty and still. Us women folk are so curious to me these days, as we have within us both life giving and dying forces at play during a full lunar cycle. Do men have this? Or do they just carry their seeds about, unaffected by pulls and swings of cosmic forces. Constantly charged and ready, energized? Perhaps this is why if we look to the past, we see men riding out to battle, warriors filled with lust, turning to blood lust, a way in which to experience an on the edge rush of adrenaline filled climactic release. To be so close to death, yet to live?
And then there is the factor too in which, left to our own devices, we women seem only capable of reproducing the female species. We carry only one possibility within us, yet the power to grow and create is ours. The men carry male and female seeds. Either or. Both factors. It becomes visible to me in the presence of one son and three daughters. He carries an ‘otherness’ that we don’t have. He carries the male factor within him, it sets him apart, makes him different although we are all humans. I give my daughters my mother, her mother, and hers and hers and hers before her, and my father’s mother, and her mother, and hers before her. I give the same thing to my son. Yet from his father he also gets his father, and his father, and his father’s father’s father before him. Laughing Fox does not give the girls this father aspect. Instead he gives them his fathers mother, and her mother and her mother before her. The girls are filled with herstory. Our son gets the herstory from me, he doesn’t get his father’s herstory but Fox’s fatherstory instead. Is all this important? Perhaps, perhaps not, who’s to say, but it’s been of interest to me of late as I watch Little Man change and grow in ways that I struggle to understand or keep up with even. Full moon, still moon, big moon, bright moon, there’s a full moon in the sky . . . where are you now? And now to find a space that has a windbreak, water close by, and sunlight to place our new top-bar beehive, which Laughing Fox and our new neighbour, who we call Iron John, completed yesterday.