By Ryn Gargulinski : email@example.com
If anyone heard some howling on Thursday, I swear it wasn’t me. But it could have been any number of coyotes, demons or anything else that delights in a full moon.
The full moon is especially magical for New Mexico as evidenced by the great number of Land of Enchantment souvenirs that depict a coyote screaming beneath one.
I nearly bought an ashtray with such a design, but opted instead for one shaped like a street sign of the infamous Route 66.
The full moon is also a time for folks to act weird. I recall one full-mooned night on a New York City subway train where everyone appeared to have just escaped from a mental hospital.
True, that looks like half the passengers half the time, but this time it was everyone.
One gal was crouched in a grungy afghan in the fetal position. From time to time she’d rearrange herself to look out the window into a blackened tunnel and rock back and forth.
At least three folks were mumbling and stumbling around the subway car like zombies while another man stood, perplexed, gazing at a subway map.
The latter would not have been so odd except most people know not to do that as it labels them as a tourist and invites getting mugged.
But this man was holding the map upside down.
Oddly enough the incident happened on the F train, which definitely that night stood for “Freaks.”
I don’t recall any full-moon-specific incident in New Mexico, unless there was a full moon at the time a giant storm nearly whisked away my goats.
Proof of the full moons influence dates back forever— or at least until the first full moon.
Some of the most intense ceremonies are scheduled to coincide with it.
Like sweat lodge gatherings, drumming circles and shedding ceremonies, where folks burn all the old “baggage” that’s been hindering them for quite some time. This time around my baggage included a few love poems and a photo of an ex.
It was also the evening my childhood friend and I decided to try the ritual that would turn us into werewolves. Thankfully, we were unable to find a hilltop high enough to go through with the thing, since I’d rather not be one of those women who grows facial hair.
More evidence can be found by the full moon monikers.
September’s full moon is known as the “harvest moon” and — voila! — it’s time to harvest.
January’s full moon is called the “wolf moon.” My new dog, born in January, happens to be part wolf.
May’s full moon is the “flower moon.” There’s not a May that goes by that I don’t get a bouquet of flowers. But this could be because it’s also my birthday.
Anyone who missed realizing there was a full moon on Thursday should consider themselves lucky — it’s hard on the soul to watch goats nearly float away or see freaks on the F train.