By the time the Full Moon rose over ancient cultures at the end of October, the harvest had usually been completed, leaving the fields wide open and stubbly. Leaf-dropping trees stood stripped and starkly skeletal under this brilliant moon, which illuminated deer, wild boar, foxes, and other animals as they foraged in the fields for leftover nuts, fruit, vegetables, and grains. Hunter-gatherers welcomed this time of year, and this helpful moon, for its promise of abundant and reasonably easy hunting. Appropriately, they referred to their beacon above as the “Full Hunter’s Moon” (or “Blood,” or “Sanguine Moon”).
Their work was urgent, for winter was fast approaching, and woe to the community that failed to stock its larder with enough food to survive the freezing months ahead. Today, many of us in the developed world have no such pressure because our survival no longer hinges on good hunting, yet the power of the Hunter’s Moon persists. If you feel the urge to journey into yourself to your own skeletal core, you may discover your essential vulnerability that gives the lie to your usual reckless bravado. Men in particular may welcome at this time of year a special opportunity to shed their egos by the season’s door and assess the truth of their own nakedness and barren landscapes.
No man can contemplate his place in the world beneath a Hunter’s Moon without conjuring Diana, the huntress, and Venus/Sophia, the lover-mother-Goddess of all creation. Doing so, he perceives The Divine Feminine and arrives at harmony, a place of worship, service, and unselfish love. The Hunter’s Moon looks down on a world that is fully prepared for regeneration and rebirth. It awaits the labor, the bended knee and diligent tilling of physical and emotional soil. This is work in the trenches, and work among the clouds.
It’s work that is especially important for men to be doing now, and the work will go so much better if women are willing to act as companion-guides. Some men need a woman’s masterful mentorship more than they know, others more than they can say, but all men who would serve The Divine Feminine must have it. Until a man submits to The Divine Feminine, he is not wholly a man. The Hunter’s Moon is a perfect moment in time to accept that truth or renew one’s dedication to it.
Here is my poem of this transformation.
The Promise of Hunter’s Moon
At some point we’re all coming back as birds.
We’ll begin in the muck, unrecognizable, stinking,
Until creatures with hands or tools for hands
Scoop us up and start squeezing and pulling.
Suddenly there we are, unmistakably beaked,
Straining against thin leather thongs that someone
Had the good sense to tie around rocks and our twiggy legs.
It’s a good thing, this confinement, because free
We’d rip and tear apart anything we could reach.
The things with hands, or tools like hands, feed us
A mixture of water and the blood of the beheaded,
And with this inside of us we develop fast,
Looking more like giant birds you’d recognize
By the minute. Our feathers grow black and glossy,
And the thicker they become the meaner we feel.
When they just can’t grow anymore they fall out.
Our featherless bodies are disgusting to touch,
Hideous to behold. Where once we were murderous,
We grow timid under the mirror-hot sun. Then
More feathers appear, small at first, white feathers,
Beautiful, snowy plumes that dazzle under a Hunter’s Moon.
When we’re ready She comes. Out of the sea and sky,
Out of the barren ground She comes. Astonishing
Is her loveliness, perfected is Her power. She rises and walks
Among us as we bow, obedient, peaceful, and so in love.