It’s sometime in the mid ’80s. I drive to the foot of a mountain somewhere west of Morrison, Colorado, to meet friends for a Blue Moon Ceremony. I’ve only had Grandmother Drum a few years and she wants to be there on that mountain top. People start to trek up the steep path as I gather up my bag of ceremony, a blanket and Grandmother Drum. I follow along in the late day light, the last in line.
Grandmother Drum was never so heavy. She is a big Taos drum that I bought at the pueblo from drum maker Red Shirt. She likes to be in circle with people honoring the Earth and the Sky. I trudge along, readjust the bag on my shoulder, feel the bite of twisted leather as I grip the drum handle. Red dust scuffs my shoes as I weave through the underbrush, no longer able to see those ahead of me.
Drought dry leaves crunch beneath my feet. I stop, change hands, shift the bag to the opposite shoulder. When I look up I see Scott’s long legs headed back down the mountain, a grin on his handsome face. He reaches down and takes Grandmother Drum as if she were an illusion. My bag becomes lighter. I follow his long stride up and up and up around curves and still I cannot see the others. Finally the path opens to a flat mesa.
Everyone is settling into a circle as Father Sun bows down to Grandmother Blue Moon filling the eastern horizon beyond the twinkling lights of Denver far below. Magic flows in on a breeze and an owl calls out blessings. We smudge. I pull Rune Stones from my bag. Each person pulls a stone , returns it to the bag and passes it around after the reading. Everyone has the same Rune.
Tonight I will drive down to the lake at moon ise and watch Grandmother Moon splash across the waters and listen for owl and coyote.
What blue moon do you remember?