There is a certain fascination to be had in discovering the origins of things, forgotten knowledge, myths and practises that become commonplace, their magic becomes forgotten, their purpose assimilated into the daily, the mundane.
On Monday while singing a wedding the celebrant told me of the honeyed moon. The giving of honey mead to married couple at the wedding celebration. They serve each other a sip of honey mead from a shallow wide cup to demonstrate their servitude to each other and their trust in the other to care for their needs. Honey has restorative and healing properties and a honey moon was a lunar month where before retiring each night, the newly weds would sip honey mead together to seal their union, restore their bodies and to ultimately bless their marriage with fertility, with a child.
A month of honey prescribed by the moon, lune de miel, the moon of honey.
Sometimes it seems that the poetry of life is hidden by the grab-a-seat customs, of far off places, white sanded beaches and status update of bikinis and cocktails, which I suppose in their own way have their own kind of disparate (desperate?) poetry.
But yet the origins are sweeter, bound by the bees, the glowing dust of flowers transformed into honey and again into warming wine and the promise of future generations to take the customs further, deeper into time where they may be forgotten.
Image lifted from here The Royal Astronomical Society of New Zealand There are other stunning images of our moon (as seen from the Southern Hemisphere), follow the link.