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Each full moon, I write to honor the wild rhythms of nature and the raw truths I carry inside. These are moments to reflect, grow, and be brave enough to be seen.
October brings the Harvest Moon, rising early and lingering long across the darkening evenings. For several nights in a row, it climbs the horizon earlier than other moons, stretching practical light across the fields like a gift. Farmers once depended on this, using the extra hours to gather the last sheaves before winter arrived. The Harvest Moon does not ask you to work by your own small candle. It offers its light freely, so the work can be finished together.
Tonight I sit at my desk watching that moon rise over the river, full and bright enough to cast shadows. The days are not long enough anymore. My calendar glows with tasks that multiply faster than I can complete them. For months I have been carrying my business alone, working before dawn and then past moonrise. The light from my laptop feels thin and insufficient.
I need to work by borrowed light.
One Person Is Not Enough
This month our moorage held its semiannual cleanup, the ritual that marks the turn of seasons. There is always a shared list: sweep the roofs, tighten loose boards, trim the garden overgrowth. The rule is simple. Each person takes one task, no more.
The fall morning began chilly, our breath smoking. Finger docks knocked softly against their pilings. The air smelled of wet cedar, river mud, and the green bite of cut stems. A drill whined at the top of the moorage ramp, ladders clacked. We got dirty and warm as we plied shovels and brooms and power tools.
My job was trimming ivy. Glossy and determined, it had climbed railings and curled through hostas and geraniums. I hated to cut it, but our garden was disappearing. Growth is gorgeous, but it must be contained before it swallows other things that matter.
I saw my neighbors moving through their tasks. One person swept, another tightened bolts. A third hauled bags to the dumpster. No one tried to do everything, or apologized for taking only one job. The work got done anyway, because of our willingness to share the load.
The lesson was so obvious I almost laughed. As in the harvest fields, many hands make lighter work.
What Gets Carried Together
The day warmed enough for sweatshirts to come off and jobs finished in small, satisfying bursts. The barbecue fired up and sent smoke across the water. Hot dogs hissed. There was tart lemonade, paper plates, pickles that disappeared fast. We sat in mismatched garden chairs with the slack-jawed contentment that comes after shared labor. Someone brought out a few beers.
That evening I stood at my desk and made a small ceremony of pruning. I opened my calendar, that beautiful overly-ambitious tangle choking every hour. I talked to clients and reset deadlines. I wrote down the names of people I trust and the jobs they could take. I practiced asking “can you handle this for me?” I practiced hearing yes.
This is what I am learning this season: collaboration is not a failure of self-sufficiency. It is how real work gets done. I am letting go of the belief that I must carry everything alone, or that asking for help diminishes the result. The Harvest Moon does not apologize for shining on everyone’s fields at once.
The Light We Share
Now when I step onto my deck at evening, I see it differently. The river slides by, wavelets reflecting glimmers. Tiny fish jump in little silver patters. The moon has already cleared the tree line, so bright that I can’t see the maria and craters. It casts sharp shadows on the sailboats tied to each house. Along my neighbors’ decks, fairy lights glow blue and purple. Someone across the river has lit their firepit.
I stand among all this brightness that is not mine and feel how much of my life is carried by other people’s steady presence. There will always be more ivy, more deadlines. When the days grow too short, I can turn to others for help.
I will work by borrowed light.