I have a writing ritual where I reflect with every full moon, not just on the nature around me, but on the wild, untamed stories we carry in ourselves. These posts are moments to pause, to reflect, and to honor the raw vitality of both the world outside and the worlds we create: in art, in story, in the brave act of baring ourselves to the light. They’re about the power of nature, humming in the flow of the river and the roots of plants, but also the power of our bodies, our voices, and our courage to be seen.
May’s Flower Moon rises over my floating home like a blessing, casting silver light over a deck crowded with green life. My morning ritual of feeding the crows and watering the plants in the nippy dawn is a reward after months spent bundled up against dripping gray skies and lashing winds. The moon is slipping under the river to the west as the sun peeks up from the east, and my plants turn their little faces to the light, answering a quiet call to bloom.
And bloom they do. The daffodils have already bowed out, but the fuschia are riotous in trailing pinks and purples, the black-eyed susans are spattering the trellis with orange blossoms. The fragrant jasmine bush has three new little white flowers that smell of honey. It all looks so easy, so natural to bloom in May.
It’s easy to forget how much tending this moment took. None of it is effortless.
A Wall Meant to Bloom
For my birthday this year, I’m finally beginning a mural I’ve been dreaming of since before I bought this house. I saw the listing photos and knew, instantly, that the big blank wall behind my desk was meant to hold something bigger than shelves and gallery frames. I imagined outrageous color, over-the-top movement. It would climb across the ceiling, trailing across closet doors and even windows. It would transcend its canvas.
It took time, planning the geometry and gathering the right brushes, the right paints, the right moment. My husband, a master housepainter in his youth, is helping me. We’re spending my birthday together with rollers and drop cloths, music playing, slowly bringing the wall into bloom.
To anyone watching, it might look spontaneous. But I’ve been gathering this vision for years.
The Flower Moon Knows
This is what the Flower Moon reminds me of. Not the petals or the fragrance, but the labor behind them. The time spent in the soil, in the dark, before anything shows. The quiet belief that something beautiful might grow if you just keep tending.
So if you’re watching someone else flourish and wondering how they made it look so easy, remember the root work you didn’t see. And if you’re knee-deep in paint or paper or doubt, unsure if anything will ever take shape, trust that your season will come. Keep tending.
Your flower moon is on its way.
