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.
I know how to start my day.
There’s a tea bag waiting in my empty cup, pale morning light slipping over the river, and a quick barefoot check on the planters on the deck. The strawberries ripened early this year, small and red already, weeks ahead of schedule. I pluck one, still cool underneath, and bite into it as the kettle begins to whistle in the kitchen.
It’s perfect. Sweet, then gone.
We don’t get to stay in the sweet parts forever.
I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. About how quickly things ripen and disappear. About how time keeps turning, whether I’m ready or not. The news in both the wide world and my career are full of doubt and possibility. Change will always come, and it’s hard to feel it ahead of us. Will it bring us a better life? Worse? How can we know, and how can we plan for it?
This is the Season for Uncertainty
The Strawberry Moon is named for the harvest. It’s when the berries come in, suddenly and briefly. You don’t get to pick them on your schedule, they come when they come and then they’re gone. This year, they’ve arrived ahead of their time, ripened by a warming planet. Seeing them turn red before their season is one more reminder that things are different now, and getting more so.
Lately, I’m noticing how many of us are being asked to pick too early. To shift gears mid-plan. To ripen in a climate that isn’t what we expected. It’s not that we’re unprepared, it’s that the world keeps changing. Change will always come.
And yet, the berries are sweet.
Let This One Ripen
There’s something about that sweetness that calls for presence. A strawberry in your palm, juicy and softening, doesn’t wait. You eat it. You savor it. And maybe you plant another.
I’m letting this moon be a reminder to enjoy what’s here. To let joy be enough for a moment, even with uncertainty close behind it. I don’t know what’s next. But this morning, the tea is hot. The river’s calm. There’s another berry to pick. And when the fruit is consumed, maybe a seed is left behind, quiet, invisible, already becoming what comes next.
We don’t get to stay in the sweet parts forever. But we do get to be here when they come.
