Wítheȟí Wi — The Hard Moon
Wítheȟí Wi — The Hard Moon
In the lands of my ancestors, where the Lakota language was born, a Hard Moon shines over bare branches and frozen ground. Its name is not taken from gods or rulers, but from our relationship to the Earth. In those early stories, the Hard Moon marked the season when snow lay heavy on the land, the wasna was dwindling, and the deep cold settled into the bones. It was also the time to gather close to the elders, to listen as they shared stories and passed on wisdom.
Here in the Pacific Northwest, where I now live, I might call this season the Wet Paws Moon, or the Moon of Many Dark and Rainy Days. Like many of you, I have traded winter’s physical hardships for gas fireplaces, light lamps, and DoorDash. But I am not fooled. The Hard Moon still shines overhead. My pantry may be full and my bones intact, but how can my heart not break beneath this moon? Violence against the preciousness of life that is happening in our world is hard to bear. And it is just as hard to stomach the harm done to our human ecosystems in the name of power.
I long for the stories of my elders to guide me through these dark days.
This morning, I took that longing for a walk. I found myself drawn to the naked branches of the Witch Hazel. Two bright yellow flowers stared back at me like the eyes of a distant sun. I laughed out loud, suddenly aware that I was being watched by this witch. As I traced my finger along the wet branch, I remembered a recent conversation with a friend. We had been debating: Who gets to live a romantic life?
Years ago, I might have said that only those with time, safety, and stability in their bodies could even ask such a question. Who has time to scatter flower petals on a pillow when there is a hustle to survive? But now, standing before this grandmother plant, I listen to her tell a different story — a story of courage in the dark season.
Witch Hazel, the bringer of beauty under the Hard Moon, reminds me that a romantic life is simply a life of presence and intention. It is this touch: a naked finger on a bare branch. It is the noticing, the listening, the long and winding story — full of adjectives and run-on sentences — that carries us down the block to meadows and tall grasses, to snags where owls roost, to falling snow. Not because it enriches a plot, but because it is the poetry that proves we are here, in this moment, on this planet, paying attention.
I wanted to tell you that if you are longing to sit with your broken heart at the feet of a wise elder, I could send you to the right person. But the truth is, I don’t know of any one human who holds the story we need for this Hard Moon. What I do know is that I will sit with you beneath the bright eyes of the Witch Hazel, and we can listen together.
If you have time for this romantic life, come sit with me Under the Eagle’s Wing.
With love,
Shayne