Working With the Moon Cycles

The older I get, the more I find myself looking up at the Moon. Not necessarily because I have something I need to manifest or a ritual I need to perform, but sometimes simply because I want to know where she is. There is something deeply comforting about stepping outside at night and finding that familiar light above me, especially when I've been caught up in the busy little world of being human. I think the Moon has a beautiful way of reminding us that life was never really meant to be lived in a straight line. She grows, becomes full, disappears into darkness and begins again. The seasons do the same thing. The tides rise and fall, seeds disappear beneath the earth before they become flowers, and trees let go of their leaves without wondering whether they should be holding on.

As a child, I used to sit out on the nature strip at our house on Bisdee Street and chat away to the Moon as though she were an old friend. She listened to everything I had to say, and somehow, in her own quiet way, she would chat right back. I never questioned it. I never wondered whether I was imagining it or whether children were supposed to talk to the Moon. It simply felt natural. There I was, sitting beneath the night sky, telling her my little stories and thoughts, and there she was answering me in the only way the Moon can, through her light, her presence and that strange feeling of being completely heard.

Looking back now, I wonder if perhaps that little girl understood something I had forgotten as I grew older. Maybe the natural world doesn't always need to speak to us in words for us to know that it is listening. Maybe relationship begins simply with the willingness to sit together in the quiet and pay attention. The older I get, the more that childhood memory feels less like something I grew out of and more like something I have slowly found my way back to.

In many ways, that is what my Earth-based and shamanic path has felt like. A remembering.

The more I learn about the ways traditional cultures have related to the natural world, the more I understand that nature was not always viewed as something separate from us or simply something we lived upon. The land, the animals, the plants, the rivers, the mountains, the Sun and Moon were part of a living relationship. There was an understanding that the world around us was alive, meaningful and worthy of attention. The more I sit with that idea, the more familiar it feels. Perhaps because somewhere inside me, that little girl sitting on the nature strip already knew it.

This has changed the way I think about working with the Moon. I'm not really interested in using her as a tool to get something I want. I'm much more interested in relationship. I want to notice her, listen to her, pay attention to the rhythm she is moving through and notice what those rhythms stir in me. Sometimes that might lead me into ritual, meditation, working with crystals or shamanic journeying. Other times it might simply mean standing outside for a few minutes and looking up.

For me, working with the Moon has become less about following a perfect ritual for every phase and much more about noticing. I notice what is happening in the sky, what is happening in the seasons around me and what is happening inside myself. Sometimes those things line up beautifully and other times they don't, and that's okay too. There is no need to force a connection. Nature doesn't seem particularly interested in being rushed, and perhaps neither should we.

The dark Moon is probably the phase I have grown to love the most. There is something wonderfully quiet about those nights when the Moon seems to disappear. We live in a world that encourages us to always be doing something, showing something, producing something or becoming something, so darkness offers a lovely little rebellion against all of that. Sometimes we just need to disappear for a while.

The dark Moon gives me permission to turn inward. I might journal, sit quietly with a crystal, pull a card, meditate or spend some time in a shamanic journey and see what comes forward. Other times, honestly, I just make a cup of tea, put my feet up and go to bed early. I've learned not to make everything into a spiritual assignment. There is something quite sacred about simply allowing yourself to be quiet.

There is something quite shamanic about stillness itself. When we stop filling every quiet space with noise, we begin to notice things we might otherwise miss: a feeling, a memory, a dream or a little inner knowing that has been trying to get our attention. We don't always need to go searching for a message. Sometimes we simply need to become quiet enough to hear one. I think that is part of what my childhood self understood instinctively. I didn't need to prove that the Moon was talking to me. I simply sat with her and listened.

As the Moon begins to grow again, I usually notice myself becoming a little more outward-facing. Ideas start bubbling up, I feel like making things, planning things, getting into the garden, starting projects or following some little spark of inspiration that has been sitting around waiting for me. I love this part of the cycle because it feels like that first green shoot pushing its way through the soil.

But I've become much less interested in forcing what I want to happen. These days, instead of asking, "What can I manifest?" I find myself asking, "What wants to grow?" It is a small shift, but it has changed the way I think about intention. There is a difference between trying to bend life around exactly what we think we want and becoming open enough to notice what is already trying to emerge. Sometimes the answer is something I expected, sometimes it is something completely different, and sometimes there is no answer yet. The Moon doesn't seem to mind waiting.

Then she becomes full, and I still get a little bit excited about it. There is something about a full Moon that makes me want to go outside, even when I've already seen a hundred of them. Maybe it's the light, maybe it's something ancient in us that still responds to a bright night sky, or maybe I'm simply a witchy old soul who likes wandering around outside after dark. Whatever it is, I love it.

I tend to think of the full Moon as a time of illumination. Things can become easier to see. What has grown? What is working? What isn't? What am I grateful for? What have I been avoiding? Sometimes the answers are lovely and sometimes they are inconvenient. The Moon doesn't seem particularly concerned about making us comfortable. She simply shines.

I've found that some of my deeper reflections and shamanic work naturally seem to fit around these brighter lunar nights too. There can be something about being outside under a full Moon that changes the quality of awareness. I might sit with a crystal, make a small offering, meditate or journey. Other times I simply stand beneath the sky and breathe. There doesn't have to be a big experience or some profound message waiting for me. That has been another lesson for me: not every spiritual moment needs to be extraordinary. Sometimes standing barefoot on the earth, looking up at the Moon and feeling grateful to be here is enough.

Then the Moon begins to wane, and slowly the energy changes again. This is the part of the cycle where I think about letting go, not in the dramatic "release everything that no longer serves you" kind of way that we sometimes see in modern witchcraft, but in a much more ordinary and human way. What am I ready to put down? What have I been carrying simply because I've carried it for so long? What can I clear out, forgive, finish or leave behind? Sometimes the answer is emotional and sometimes it is a cupboard that desperately needs cleaning.

I've come to believe there is no great divide between those things. Clearing an old drawer can feel surprisingly good when you're also trying to clear some old emotional clutter. Opening the windows, sweeping the floor, washing the sheets and letting fresh air move through the house can be a beautiful little ritual in itself. Sometimes I take those things outside too. I'll walk near the water, sit beneath a tree, hold a stone in my hand or let the wind move around me. There is something about being in nature when I'm trying to release something that makes the process feel less like I'm doing it all on my own.

Perhaps that's one of the gifts of an Earth-based path. It reminds us that we belong to something. The more I've explored shamanic practice, the more I've come to appreciate that sense of relationship. I don't need to have all the answers. I can listen to the land, pay attention to dreams, notice the animals and plants around me, sit quietly beside the ocean or walk through the bush and allow myself to be reminded that there is a whole world happening around me that doesn't revolve around my little list of worries.

And maybe that is why the Moon still feels so familiar to me. Somewhere along the way, I didn't discover a new relationship with her. I remembered an old one.

That little girl on Bisdee Street didn't have words like Earth-based spirituality or shamanic practice. She didn't know anything about lunar cycles or rituals or ancestral traditions. She simply knew that the Moon was there, that she could talk to her and that, somehow, the Moon talked back.

I think there is something worth listening to in that.

So my relationship with the Moon has become quite simple. I notice her, I notice myself and I notice the land. Sometimes I light a candle or work with crystals. Sometimes I journal, journey, make an offering or sit quietly and listen. Sometimes I do absolutely nothing except look up and smile because there she is again.

I don't think we need to turn every Moon phase into a ritual, and we certainly don't need a perfect altar, a cupboard full of herbs or a beautifully curated collection of witchy things to have a relationship with the Moon. We can simply begin by paying attention. Where is the Moon tonight? What season are we in? How is the land feeling? How am I feeling? What wants to grow, what wants to rest and what am I ready to let go of?

Over time, we start to notice our own rhythms. We might discover that we naturally become more social as the Moon grows, or that we crave solitude as she disappears. We might find that our dreams become more vivid at certain times, or that creative ideas seem to arrive in waves. Those observations are much more interesting to me than a list telling me exactly how I'm supposed to feel during each phase, because our relationship with the Moon is our own.

Perhaps that is the real magic of working with her. She reminds us that we don't have to be the same person every day. We don't have to be constantly growing or constantly shining. We can have seasons of expansion and seasons of retreat. We can disappear for a while, rest, shed old things, change direction and find our way back to ourselves.

She simply moves through her cycles, trusting that darkness belongs just as much to the story as light. Perhaps we can learn to trust that too.

And maybe that is what working with the Moon really offers us: a gentle invitation to remember that we are nature too. We are not separate from the cycles, rhythms, darkness, growth, death and renewal happening all around us. We are part of it. The Moon doesn't need us to be perfect. She doesn't ask us to hurry. She simply keeps returning, night after night, reminding us that there is always another cycle, another season, another opportunity to listen, to let go and to begin again.

And every now and then, when I look up at her, I think about that little girl sitting on the nature strip on Bisdee Street, happily chatting away to the Moon as though she were an old friend.

She was. And she still is.

L Xx