Full Moon Ritual

Written with the prompts:  this will be a difficult journey, you will have all the time you need, never questioned, don’t say anything, learn to__, open the box, what if I don’t, Emily does her best, making lists, Denise, like Sally

It was Grandmother Sally who taught Denise and Emily to sit up all night once a month, at the full moon, watching it cross the sky.  “Greet it in the evening as it rises,” she told them.  “Bless it as it sets at dawn.”  She was a solemn old woman, kindly and thoughtful, though a bit dour, lecturing the sisters on the efficacy of ritual, meditation, and the importance of patience as one waits for inspiration.  “It’s a difficult journey, life is,” she often intoned.  “But you’ll have all the time you need.  Affirm that.  Know that it’s true.”

“I want to be like you, Grandma Sally,” Denise announced one evening, but Emily had other ideas.

The sisters continued the monthly rituals even after the passing of their Grandmother, but thanks to Emily, these gatherings were no longer quiet events.  She insisted on inviting their cousins, friends, ad neighbors to the vigil.  She encouraged a pot luck of seasonal appetizers, fresh fruit, hummus and pita, cheese and nuts, crusty bread, and small wrapped candies.  Emily and her friends would bring out guitars and flutes, start off with hymns and anthems, switch into the folk rock of the 60s, finally providing a lively salsa beat for anyone who wanted to dance.  At dawn Emily would bring out a big layered cake, something Denise made that afternoon, sometimes chocolate, but often a creation of oranges and olive oil, lemon and blueberries, or apples, walnuts, and cream cheese.  It was a celebration of wholeness and unity, a recognition that this moment doesn’t come often enough and therefore must be noticed and marked.  Everyone must have a taste.

On these evenings, Denise would slip through the crowd quietly, making sure everyone had lemonade, cider, or perhaps a mug of hot jasmine tea.  Satisfied that the guests were comfortable she would retreat to her usual spot behind singers and dancers, near the evergreen camellia bushes, curled in a lawn chair, with knitting needles and yarn, creating an ever-growing blanket the color of the night sky, slipping from twilight blue, to navy, then black—then back again, over and over.

To many people it seemed Denise was doing the grunt work while Emily was hogging the spotlight, but Denise refuted that notion.  “Emily does what she does best,” she’d say, and indeed it seemed this was true of Denise as well.  Every month, an hour before dawn, Emily would wander back to sit at her sister’s feet and meditate.  Emily knew her sister was the anchor in a well of swirling energy.  Denise was the one who pulled it all together .

For years, this was how the nights would wind to a close.  When the sisters meditated together the music would slow and voices would sink into whispers.  Emily would bring out the cake for a sweet breakfast, and their guests would drift back to their own lives.  But in recent months, the vibe swelled instead of receding.  The music grew louder and frenzied.  Dancers began to shriek and shout, crockery was broken, chairs overturned.  Emily and Denise both noticed and wondered why.  One evening Emily started to get up intending to scold the crowd, hoping to calm them, but Denise grabbed her hand.  “Don’t say anything,” she cautioned.  “Give it time.”

Emily never questioned her sister’s wisdom, but the gatherings were growing increasingly wild.  Finally on a hot August night, Denise laid her hand on Emily’s shoulder.  She cast her eyes on a thin slip of a girl, who had just entered the backyard with her mother.  She was barely into her teens, the daughter of their cousin Marina.  She was blonde and pale in cut-off jeans and flip flops, but she was channeling a tremendous amount of energy.  “She must learn to direct her power,” Denise whispered and Emily understood.

Emily began right then, making lists in her head.  Denise continued to knit, trusting in Emily’s ability to handle this task.  

The next full moon gathering was scheduled for the autumnal equinox.  “It’s not a coincidence,” Emily said, and Denise agreed.  “It’s a focal point,” she confirmed.  When Emily called marina to be sure she and her daughter would attend, she learned it was the girl’s birthday as well.  Emily was not surprised.

Denise made a fudge chocolate cake, decorated with the last of the summer blackberries, forming a purple ring on top.  Emily prepared a treasure box, filled with 192 presents.  “Small things,” she told Denise.  “Books, post cards, polished stones, herbs, and seeds.  It will help.”  She decorated the box with glitter and silk flowers, tied with satin ribbon. 

The plan was to wait till dawn to present it to her, but Emily was so eager she asked Denise if their little ceremony might begin at twilight, even before the musicians tuned up.  Denise felt unsure—which was rare—but she could think of no reason to refuse.  Emily gathered the party-goers to sing Happy Birthday.  Even Denise joined her at the dais.  The girl was flattered and shy, but graciously accepted her cousins’ praise.  Finally the moment arrived.  “Happy Birthday, Pandora!”  Emily chanted as she handed the girl her gift.  “Open the box!”  

Photo by Lindsay Cotter at Unsplash