One full moon has passed

Last night was a Blue Mooon...

Last night was the first full moon since my father died.

Not just the first month but the first full moon. A blue moon, making it extra special.

Dad died beneath the Flower Moon, a fitting moon for a man whose final days coincided with the season when gardens awaken and blossoms return. Dad and I counted how the days grew longer and I was so pleased he died during a season he loved. He loved brighter days and warm weather.

In the days immediately following his death, there was a visitation with family and friends, cremation, and conversations with the cemetery, which I forced myself to do. Don’t put it off. Get organized. It’s only the beginning. Soon there will be probate and all the organization of dismantling one’s childhood home. I am not ready for that.

Only this week have I found myself returning to the garden and to Strange’s for some retail plant therapy. I weeded beds that had been neglected. I cleaned up debris. I put my hands in the dirt. The garden felt connected to the Flower Moon that had shone over Dad’s final journey. While everything in my life felt disrupted, the flowers continued. There’s beauty in that.

Last night, under the Blue Moon, I decided that I needed a plan like the Victorians’ art of mourning. I already wear black, so my wardrobe doesn’t need to change. Before the first moon had passed, I even ordered a little pendant with Dad’s signature (the way he wrote to me on cards) and his fingerprint.

Last night, I sat on the porch journaling and marked the first full moon without him. I wasn’t trying to be dramatic, but earlier in the day, I had pulled out our solar torches and placed them close by so I could see which still worked. It felt dramatic and a bit funny, so I knew that was the right tone for mourning Dad.

I stopped crying every day, at least for now. I recognize that Dad had what many consider a good death. There was no long suffering or severe pain. We worked as a team and kept going until his body had had enough. He was 87!

The Victorians measured grief in stages and prescribed periods of mourning that could last months or years. Their rituals were meant to acknowledge that grief changes shape over time. I have found myself adapting that idea through lunar cycles.

One moon has passed since Dad died.

The Blue Moon became the first marker in what I am beginning to think of as a lunar mourning calendar. Once in a Blue Moon… might as well take advantage of what the universe sends.

Before the first passing moon, I purchased two Trees of Enchantment, one for Babushka and one for me. Dad often said he was lucky to have a bonus daughter in Babushka. Their relationship was built not through blood but through love and choice. After he died, it felt important to acknowledge that bond in a tangible way.

The Tree of Enchantment, or the Weeping Pussy Willow, seems like an obvious mourning tree. The weeping branches mirror sorrow, bending toward the earth, but the willow’s symbolism runs deeper than sadness.

Throughout folklore, willows have long been associated with healing, resilience, intuition, and remembrance. They thrive along the edges of water, places that symbolize the boundary between worlds. Even when severely cut back, they often return stronger than before. Their flexibility allows them to bend in storms without breaking.

The pussy willow, among the earliest signs of spring, carries another layer of meaning. Its soft silver catkins emerge while winter still lingers, reminding us that renewal begins before we are fully ready to recognize it.

In some traditions, the willow represents mourning and endurance.

This first moon without Dad has been filled with both grief and purpose and that continues. Today, I designed his grave marker, and I began arrangements for a marker for his infant brother, whose brief life was never formally memorialized.

I carry Dad’s fingerprint and signature close to my heart in a pendant made in his memory. On his deathbed, I brushed his hair, something he had always enjoyed me doing growing up. I considered cutting a piece of his hair. During the last year, I became his hair stylist and personal salon, but hair art creeps me out a bit. I’m a terrible goth ;)

And last night, beneath the Blue Moon, I sat quietly on the porch and wrote. I am not the same person I was before the Flower Moon.

One moon has passed.

What will grief bring me before the Strawberry Full Moon? Probate.