Moon and Sun

“To the one, to the magic Sun, you’re not that bright now, but you will be someday soon. And you will fall in love with the Moonlight.”                                                  -“Spiders” by Lovedrug

I have selected a lot of topics for the Pagan Blog Project that are so far out of the scope of a single post, that I wind up skipping them altogether. Labyrinths. Hades. My mother, the Birch Goddess. I could write books on them. How am I supposed to narrow any of them down? How do I know what to say, when something is so big it feels all-encompassing?

The Moon and the Sun fall into that category. In a strange little way, they feel like the origin of everything for me. They were the first symbols I latched onto when Z and I met in this lifetime. We lived thousands of miles apart, and sitting outside in the dry, summer nights in Texas, staring up at the moon, became Connection. Not only was he also looking at the moon, but it felt like somehow the moon blasted the physical boundaries away; like I could slip through to him, feel his hand caress my cheek, and hear his soft voice whisper soothingly in my ear: I have you.

We counted by the moon. The first full moon, we were oathed. Every subsequent moon felt like it had a theme, and provided a navigational map. Eventually, it all blended together, and the moons did not stand out so piercingly in my life. I still sometimes count how many moons since we first met; how many moons since I first met him during a layover at an airport; how many moons since our first kiss.

The sun is lazy here in the Northeast. I can walk outside in it for a couple of hours during the Summer without getting burned, whereas I could only last fifteen minutes down South. It is mild here, soft, but still blazes fiercely on certain days. That hot, searing, feel-your-skin-cooking, hard-to-see-anything brightness of the Sun is what I grew up with. Unyielding. Undying. Its warm touch lingering throughout the night with no reprieve.

My first Winter in a place where daylight hours were actually significantly shorter, was jarring. The Sun felt weak, like it could blow out at any moment. The Sun did not correlate with heat. It took me weeks to realize that, just because there was not a cloud in the sky, does not mean the windchill outside is not -10 degrees Fahrenheit.

Z is the Moon. I am the Sun. Our energies echo the celestial bodies. It used to be very concrete. The song I quoted at the beginning of this post spoke to me in regards to that: I am a wounded Sun, barely flickering light, but growing stronger, and falling in love with my Moon.

Two years later, things are not quite as concrete and delineated. Sometimes, Z is the Sun and I am the Moon. Sometimes we are both. Sometimes we embody more specific aspects, and other times it gets to be so jumbled there really is no difference at all. That is okay. The same thing happens in mythology, as I have been learning as I gradually look more into the Moon/Sun. Male, female, passive, dominant, yielding, undying – a constant swimming between dichotomies, but each trait can fall to either side, depending on the culture, the people involved, and various other factors.

It is complex and a muddled mess, this Moon and this Sun business. Seemingly so easy and distinct, but that is all just a facade. It is kind of beautiful like that.

About Reconstructing the Labyrinth

Hello! My name is Bri, and I run the blog Reconstructing the Labyrinth. I am a pagan who works primarily with the Minoan pantheon, of which I believe myself to be an incarnate member. I am also genderqueer, pansexual, and demisexual. I have a wonderful, loving partner. I am a mixed-media artist and writer with a great fondness for plaid and amaretto-flavored coffee.
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