Each full moon, I write to honor the wild rhythms of nature and the raw truths I carry inside. These are moments to reflect, grow, and be brave enough to be seen.
September is the Corn Moon, named for the ripening fields that mark the season’s great harvest. Though I live on a river, not among rows of corn, I feel the same fullness in the water around me: the fish jumping at sunset, the docks singing their creaking song, the moon lifting heavy and golden above it all.
I set my nets long ago. A job net, woven from years of corporate skill and rhythm. A publishing net, braided with story, ink, and risk. A home net, knotted with paint, comfort, and the steady rocking of a floating life. A travel net, cast wide into far-off theaters and open maps.
Now, under the Corn Moon, every net is full. They tug at once, ropes biting into wood, lines trembling in the current. Each one holds promise. Each one calls to me. I want them all! The security of a good job, the thrill of a second book finished, the joy of a peaceful home, the freedom of travel. My hands ache to pull every rope.
I simply can’t haul them all. I will end in knots, arms burning, the catch slipping back into the dark. That is the pain of this season: the abundance is real, but so is the choosing.
A Crisis of Opportunity
Hauling in a net takes rhythm and patience. You lean back, plant your feet, and pull hand over hand. You choose one rope and give it your strength. Only then does the harvest rise.
I am choosing to focus on my publishing company, Lingua Ink. This net holds not just my future but the voices of others. My values fill it, manuscripts waiting to surface, books that can feed more than just me. When I picture what I most want to see laid out on deck, gleaming in the light of this Corn Moon, it is not a paycheck or a plane ticket. It is pages, spines, and stories that breathe.
I’ll spend six months growing and building my own work, and then I will see if I am fed.
The other nets are not gone. A job may rise when the season shifts. The home can ripen more slowly. The travel net can drift until the tide is right. They pull at me, but I let them wait. This moon teaches me to choose.
The Weight of Harvest
This is the Corn Moon’s truth: harvest is not only about fullness. It is about strength, and discernment, and faith. The catch is plentiful, but only what you can carry will reach the table.
Each morning I rise early to hear the groan of rope against wood and to watch the river draw its line between moonlight and day. Determination steadies me. Drive pulls the rope tight. Confidence lifts the net.
The nets are full, but I can only lift one.
