Moon Lit Romance – Why Night is Ironically My Favorite Time of Day

As a ritualistic witch in the most endearing sense of the term, moonlit evenings are the source of my magic, the fuel to my craft fire. As often as I conjure maladaptive daydreams wherein a quaint woodland cabin stands as my reverie's centerpiece, a lush garden blooming outside beneath a kitchen sink bay window - a realm where hummingbirds pay daily nectar visits and a gentle zephyr carries plumes of jasmine and creek water - I've always sought solace in night. It is within the lap of eve that I have felt my truest sanctuary. In the flicker of a hand-poured candle embedded with crystal spell-working, I connect with my army of guides, even if they sometimes do so playfully. 

While daylight might beckon with its sunlit tapestry, a feast of vitamin D and sweat-resistant fabric pacing joyfully beneath the horizon's vibrant hues, it is the velvet hours of darkness that cradle my deepest contemplations. There's an enchantment to be found in watching the moon slowly build herself up and break down again every night, waxing and waning bi-weekly. Beneath her delicate glow a quietude befriends the subconscious. The moon shape shifts, her orbit unveiling her mystique, cloaked in varying degrees of brilliance and magnitude. Woven into the dark tapestry of night, the stars above have taken up the role of celestial bystanders, a guiding cosmic non-force, a storyboard that traces the journey of our ancestors across time's canvas.

Night is not all poetry and manifestations (just ask Elie Wiesel). I've faced my biggest demons in the absence of light, in the void of day. With a stillness that serves as balm for the soul, my neurotransmitters fire in overtime during the evening hours. It's as though the shadows themselves beckon for the work to commence. The lack of surrounding stimulation prompts inward reflection, a conjuring of the mind.

I feel like the sun mocks me at times, goading me to venture outside and be productive (envision dramatic hand gestures here), to just carpe diem. "Make the most of daylight!" I imagine him radiating, demanding. Perhaps living in San Diego has dulled the sun's dazzle, the daily entourage of perfect weather placating what it truly means to experience the marvel of blue, cloudless skies, a cool breeze accompanying 75 degrees in the dead of winter. The moment I awake to the vivid azure backdrop that livens up my palm tree-lined street with a half-hearted roll of the eyes and a sentiment best described as begrudging, I know I'm wading into the territory of "taking things for granted."

The moon, however, does not beg. She does not implore nor tease. She holds space for all of the emotions we're too hesitant to admit when we're drenched in sweat on a sandy beach, waves of saltwater crashing onto shore, beating a womb-like percussion against sanded rock and shell carcass. I come alive at night. Every longing that exhaustion keeps at bay starts to percolate as soon as the last sliver of light rotates beyond the western horizon. Every hidden emotive surrenders and unfurls without the constant buzz of the outside world.

Even as a young child, I'd defy bedtime. Hidden beneath my comforter's fort and drawing from my six years of experience, pondering the inception of the universe, I would rack my brain about the Big Bang. I would cover my eyes with my little hands and observe as the green and yellow lights flicked beneath my eyelids, tracing their pattern until all I saw was pure absence of light, wondering how, if everything has a beginning, was there an existence before the universe began? I'd toss and turn and wrestle with my brain and forfeit to the confusion before my eyes grew too heavy and I succumbed to the astral realm.

At night, it's as if the world hushes into silence. Like for once, without the stark shadows caste by the sun's ceaseless 24-hour revolution, time becomes arbitrary. The moon is coy, a coquettish temptress. She prances around the sky, often times peeking intermittently on cloud-sodden nights. At her newest she abandons us in a vacuum of time and space, a dropped pin in a moment of purgatory. She can't be tamed - she's the waves of the ocean, the pull of the tides. She is the ultimate taskmaster of new life - she maps the ebb and flow of creation. At her boldest, she entrances circles of witches and awakens a forest of wet howls and looming eyes. She holds all of our secrets and all of our regrets we are too afraid to proclaim when the sun takes center stage during the day.

The sun, however, emboldens. With each rise he provides dimension and life-sustaining energy to the days upon earth. He sustains ecosystems, fuels organisms, values structure and order. The sun, always lurking, watching our every move as the moon waits patiently to receive our evening wounds. I'm not trying to fight the patriarchy by discouraging sun worship.On rainy days, you might find me indoors, gazing out my window longingly, eagerly awaiting the clearing of gray skies before stepping outside again. Balance, honoring the yin and yang, is vital—the harmonious interplay of divine masculine and feminine forces ensures proportion in the natural order. Without the light of day, we would not be able to experience its absence at night. Without the sun's light, the night's absence wouldn't hold its mystique.

Night is reserved for conjuring, mending ancient wounds, delving into introspection, and tussling with the intricate dance of the shadow self. Under the moon's gentle glow, the mind's creative energies unfurl, giving rise to dreams, ideas, and reflections that flourish in the quietude of darkness. As the world around us retreats into stillness each twilight, truth seeks birth into our physical world, and the veracity that resides within us strives for manifestation, unfurling its enigma and assimilating its sagacity. In essence, the night is a sanctuary of the self, where we navigate the labyrinth of our emotional aspects, finding restoration and renewal in its soothing darkness in preparation to unveil ourselves anew beneath the sun's ego.

While I'd gleefully set up camp in a forest at the drop of a pinecone, and even though I'm on a first-name basis with the sun and outdoor escapades, let's be real—when the stars start whispering, the moon slides into my DMs, and I'm out the door faster than a squirrel chasing an acorn. The night's my jam, and the moon? Well, she's basically my cosmic GPS.

What sweet nothings will you whisper to the moon tonight?