I have a writing ritual where I reflect with every full moon about the nature around me and my place in it. These posts are moments to pause, to reflect, and to honor the raw, untamed magic of the world around me. They’re about nature—the power that hums quietly in the roots of plants, in the flow of the river, and in the ever-changing vitality and life around me.
Tonight, as the March Worm moon hangs full in the sky, I find myself reflecting on my unusual house that floats on water. When my home rocks from waves in the river or wind in the gorge, I often wish for that deep connection that comes from solid earth underfoot. It soothes me to have my many plants rocking along with me, swaying in hanging baskets or bending in the powerful gusts.
I tend to my indoor jungle with great care, encouraging orchids to bloom, moss to creep, and monsteras to climb. Soon I will start a summer container garden on our floating deck. I also share in the community garden on shore, where I work with neighbors to prep soil, plant vegetables, and welcome the new season.
The worm moon is well-named for the humble creatures that reawaken as winter retreats, a sign that life is stirring beneath the surface. The quiet work of the worms enriches the soil, preparing it for new growth. I find them burrowing through the soil of our garden containers and the community plots, turning the cold remnants of winter into fertile ground for life. The promise of fresh leaves and delicious vegetables mirrors the transformation happening all around me.
This month, the worm moon carries an extra layer of magic. It will also be a Blood moon, a total lunar eclipse. As the earth casts its shadow, the moon will take on a reddish hue, as if blushing with the collective light of every sunrise and sunset here. It feels like a cosmic reminder that even in darkness, there is beauty and renewal. Here in Oregon, the blood moon will likely remain hidden behind rain and clouds, its transformation unfolding unseen. Yet, isn’t that the way of so much in the world? The worms, too, work in secret beneath the soil, their quiet labor preparing the earth for new life. Both the hidden moon, veiled by clouds, and the humble worms, burrowing unseen, remind me that some of the most profound changes happen where we cannot see them, in the quiet, unseen spaces where the world is constantly renewing itself.
When I work on solid ground in the community garden, I feel the tension between missing a traditional, rooted garden and embracing the possibilities of my floating home. This natural shift reminds me that connection is not defined by geography but by the willingness to nurture life wherever it exists. I see the humble worms at work as a gentle call to begin anew. They are tiny architects of growth, working unseen to prepare the soil for seeds to break through.
Somehow, I am creating roots even in the fluid space of water. If that’s not magic, what is?
