Last night, September 29, was the first full moon of autumn and, outside the overcast and rainy East Coast, that moon was shining right after sunset.  American tradition speaks of that first full moon of fall as "Harvest Moon," while the second autumnal moon (October 28) is "Hunter's Moon."

Many readers might regard that information as Americana trivia, and to some degree, that might be true.  But sometimes, there's also some value in stepping back and asking ourselves why our forebears found important something about which we hardly bat an eye.

The distinctive features of Harvest and Hunter's Moons is that both rise almost immediately after sunset.  Their brightness prolongs the evening twilight, which, in earlier times, also extended visibility.  That was important in September, as farmers strove to "bring in the sheaves."  The full moon built in extra time to glean the harvest.

Likewise, once the harvest was safely home and perhaps the first frosts hit the field, the Hunter's Moon gave its namesake some extra time in the field and forest to bag extra game ahead of winter. 

A world accustomed to artificial light and Amazon Prime delivery does not know the risks earlier man — like the squirrels — faced ensuring food ahead of winter.  But let a rotted branch rip down a power line, putting out the lights, or a pandemic threaten access to toilet paper, and 24/7/365 man quickly discovers how tenuous human comfort and convenience can be.

An earlier time would have recognized in the extra light afforded by Harvest and Hunter's Moons the beneficent and Providential Hand of God (or at least "Nature's God") in providing for human weal.  Even a mechanistic, deistic universe would have recognized the felicity in the universal Watchmaker's gearwork with the rise of a bright lunar orb concurrent with sunset right at that the time of year when, amidst shortening days, a few with longer daylight fell into the calendar.

In a world that pays lip service to environmental and ecological concerns, an appreciation for the interplay of man and nature seems warranted even if, for some moderns, the idea that the Book of Nature might point to its Author seems a stretch.

The year enters its most glorious phase.  The early 20^th century African-American poet Paul Laurence Dunbar sang of October as "the treasurer of the year//and all the months pay bounty to her store. ... She, with youthful lavishness//Spends all her wealth in gaudy dress//And decks herself in garments bold//Of scarlet, purple, red, and gold." 

Our modern, "scientific" mindset might point out that the resplendence of fall foliage is actually a sign of death: longer nights gradually stop the production of chlorophyll, while fluid transfer in leaves fails.  Sugar and other chemicals clog leaf fluid transfer until, finally, they fall off the tree.

But that still doesn't make them any less beautiful.

And while the cycle of the year reminds people annually of birth, growth, decay, and death, their own minds should draw lessons for their one life.  Disputing with the Earth, the Fireside Poet John Greenleaf Whittier claimed, "'An emblem of myself thou art!'"  only to be answered:

Not so! ... [for] Thy winter shall no more depart
No Spring revive thy wasted flowers
Nor summer warm thy frozen heart.

The wise man is he who "numbers his days aright" (Ps. 90:12), learning from the cycle of the year the unique linear direction of his own life history.  And, living that life well, he also recognizes that — even amid his decline — a life well lived, like fall, should be resplendent with a lifetime's bounty.

Maybe we sometimes need a Harvest Moon to shine a little light on that.

Image via Pixnio.