The Artemisia

Our monthly full moon journal exploring tea, plants, seasonal ritual, and the quiet practice of paying closer attention to the living world.

Thursday through Saturday evening this week you may notice the moon rising well before the sun sets, leaving no dark interval between sunset and moonrise. Instead, the landscape is already illuminated by the moon as the last rays of sunlight fade.

This succession of early moonrises is known as the Harvest Moon effect, named for the full moon nearest the autumn equinox—whether it arrives in September or October.

That timing once had an important, practical value, allowing harvesters to continue working after sunset during a sensitive time of the season. For example, this year, the moon coincides with the soybean harvest in Nebraska. Modern combines carry their own powerful lights and no longer depend upon the moon after dark, yet their movement through the fields after dusk keeps the moon's old agricultural name—Harvest Moon—tethered to actual labor.

In the Garden, the bright moonlight feels like an invitation to linger outside: to weed once more between the rows, gather seeds from the holy basil and boneset, trim the spent roses, collect fruit from the nightshades and the passionflower vine, and cut the mugwort and mints. The moonflowers open, their fragrance mingling with the scent of chrysanthemum and tomato vine, while insects settle into the flowers for the night. Under moonlight, the garden becomes another place—not sleeping yet, but entering its nocturnal life.

I have a clear sense now that even this seeming rest is slight—fruits continue to ripen, seeds mature, herbs put on a little more late growth. Here, September ushers in a more insistent stretch of tending and gathering that continues through October.

These weeks are demanding in the garden and the field. What months of growth have produced must now be carefully watched, gathered at the right time, dried, stored, preserved, or brought in. Timing matters. Weather begins to change; grain may lodge beneath wind and rain; fruit may split; seed may scatter.

Harvest creates its own form of urgency.

What a blessing to be given more light at the very moment it is needed.

A similar rhythm is recognizable beyond the field or garden, though. We enter our own individual harvest seasons, too: perhaps opening a business, caring for someone we love, finishing a manuscript, moving a household, or carrying a long-tended project through to completion. This may be a period when our work asks us to lean in because the moment genuinely requires it.

For me, September brings nearly endless preparation for the return of the cold season—the work of readying Artemis, the production studio, and the Conservatory for the fall and winter months ahead. It is a true season of labor, with something specific waiting on the other side.

There is a particular strength reserved for intervals like these: the ability to recognize a seasonal opportunity and answer its legitimate urgency with concentrated effort. However, the strength to do so depends, in part, upon our remembering that these seasons do have an end.

Our strength depends, in part, upon remembering that the season has an end.

Fig. 2  ·  Crying the Neck: the last standing grain, cut, bound, and lifted overhead.

A longstanding Cornish tradition, the end of harvest was once marked through a custom known as “Crying the Neck.” When a crop had been successfully gathered, and a final patch of grain was left standing in the field, that last standing grain was cut and bound, lifted overhead, and announced in a call loud enough for the gathered workers to hear and answer.

The completion of the work became public.

The final sheaf was carried home, and the season’s labor gave way to Guldize, the harvest feast. There was cider and beer, pasties and saffron cake, music, singing, and great merriment. The ritual gave mind and body the same important information: the work was over.

The ritual gave mind and body the same important information: the work was over.

Much of our labor now offers no comparable endpoint. One report is finished and sent, and the next deadline is already waiting. Our “field,” so to speak, is rarely visibly empty.

The garden offers a more legible rhythm, and becomes more than a symbol for me. The plants still in the garden require my attention now if I am to carry them into purposeful botanical teas. The work is immediate, but I can see where it is going.

By the time a tea reaches a teacup, much of that labor has disappeared from view. Yet the blends carry the dedicated work of its growers, gatherers, and makers—the hands that plucked, carried, sorted, dried, and finished it.

I think of the Harvest Moon as a light for this stage: a source of resolve while the gathering is still underway, and a reminder that what we labor over can eventually be carried home as nourishment, comfort, and restoration.

This year, the Harvest Moon reaches fullness in Aries, opposite the Sun in Libra. In the symbolic language of astrology, Aries brings the willingness to enter the field—to begin, exert, and act. Libra reminds us that no harvest is entirely solitary. The labor is shared, as are its obligations and rewards.

The labor is shared, as are its obligations and rewards.

Fig. 3  ·  Ten of Wands. Rider-Waite-Smith tarot, 1909, illustrated by Pamela Colman Smith.

The tarot card I find most resonant with this moon is the Ten of Wands. In the Rider-Waite-Smith image, a figure carries a great bundle of staffs toward a town in the near distance. The weight is real, but the destination is visible. He is not wandering beneath an endless burden; he is carrying toward a place where it can be set down.

For me, this Harvest Moon offers both permission and resolve to lean into what this moment requires—and reminds me how important it is to follow it through. I take comfort in knowing that what feels heavy right now has a destination, and that soon I will finish it, set it down, and celebrate.

That is what I’m gathering under this full moon and carrying with me into the days ahead.

Beyond these two companions to the Harvest Moon, our fall teas have returned to the collection: full-bodied black teas, warming chais, and seasonal medicinals for the cooler, fuller weeks ahead.

Here in Omaha, there is still more to gather and much to prepare at Artemis for the fall season. I am still inside that work, but I can already see its culmination: teas blended, shelves full, the Conservatory ready to welcome you in. When we arrive there, I intend to pause and notice—to say aloud, this is finished, put the kettle on, and celebrate.

In peace, may you be well.
Andrea