The Moon is female.
Obviously.
Goddess.
Mother.
Cycles.
Fertility.
Menstruation.
Silver.
Water.
Intuition.
The unconscious.
Pick up almost any modern book on Western magick and you’ll encounter some version of this symbolic package.
There’s only one problem.
The Moon isn’t female.
At least, not everywhere.
Travel north into the old Germanic world and something rather wonderful happens.
The Moon becomes a man.
And the Sun becomes a woman.
Meet Máni and Sól.
SOMEBODY GOT THE GODS THE WRONG WAY ROUND
Or did they?
In the Norse mythology preserved by Snorri Sturluson, a man called Mundilfari has two extraordinarily beautiful children.
His son is Máni — Moon.
His daughter is Sól — Sun.
The gods take them and place them in the heavens. Sól drives the solar chariot while Máni directs the course of the moon and determines its waxing and waning. (Internet Sacred Text Archive)
And this isn’t merely Snorri improvising the reversal. Vafþrúðnismál in the Poetic Edda also names Mundilfari as father of Moon and Sun. (Internet Sacred Text Archive)
So imagine taking a respectable modern lunar-magick correspondence chart to a medieval Norseman.
Moon: feminine.
No.
Sun: masculine.
No.
Moon Goddess.
He’s a bloke.
This is precisely the sort of thing I love.
Because somebody has to be wrong.
Unless, of course, nobody is.
THE HEADMASTER WHO INTRODUCED ME TO THE NORTH
I probably have a built-in bias here.
When I was a child I went to primary school in Stewkley, Buckinghamshire.
Our headmaster was deeply interested in English folklore, history and old traditions.
He’d take us walking through the countryside behind the school.
This wasn’t simply:
“That’s an oak tree, children.”
A tree had a story.
I remember him pointing out rowan and telling us the old story of Thor being saved by a rowan.
This was ostensibly a church-affiliated English primary school.
But looking back, I wouldn’t be remotely surprised to discover that our headmaster went home at night to a secret shrine containing Odin, Thor and Freyja.
A little like Rædwald, the East Anglian king whom Bede famously described as maintaining one altar for Christian worship and another for the older gods.
Cover all eventualities.
Very East Anglian.
And perhaps because those Northern stories entered my imagination so early, I’ve never had much difficulty with the Man in the Moon.
The Moon feels masculine to me.
Which raises a fascinating question.
WHO DECIDES WHAT A SYMBOL MEANS?
Suppose somebody tells you:
The Moon is intrinsically feminine.
Why?
Because it has cycles.
Because of menstruation.
Because of water.
Because of fertility.
Because of receptivity.
All perfectly workable associations.
But then an entire culture looks upward at exactly the same astronomical object and says:
Male.
Not metaphorically male.
Máni.
A male mythological being.
Meanwhile the blazing Sun crossing the sky is Sól — she.
Suddenly our supposedly universal correspondences look rather more like what they probably are:
cultural software.
And that’s enormously useful for magick.
YOU DON’T HAVE TO DISCOVER THE CORRECT MOON
There isn’t a cosmic multiple-choice examination.
Is the Moon:
A) Male
B) Female
C) Both
D) Neither
E) A 4.5-billion-year-old lump of rock orbiting Earth
Scientifically, E gets you a long way.
Magically, however, we can temporarily select another answer.
That’s what we’ve been doing throughout these experiments.
We’re not trying to establish metaphysical truth.
We’re selecting a model and asking:
What happens when I operate inside it?
So let’s meet Máni.
THE MAN IN THE MOON
Máni isn’t particularly well developed as a character in the surviving Norse sources.
That’s useful.
We don’t have to wade through 700 pages of theological doctrine before saying hello.
He regulates the moon’s course and its waxing and waning. Snorri also tells the curious story of Máni taking two children, Bil and Hjúki, from Earth as they carried a vessel of water; thereafter they accompany him and can be seen from Earth — apparently an explanation for markings visible on the lunar surface. (Internet Sacred Text Archive)
And Máni is hunted.
A wolf pursues the Moon.
Another pursues the Sun.
Eventually the cosmic order itself breaks down.
So this isn’t necessarily the serene silver Lunar Goddess reclining beside a pool.
This Moon moves.
Measures.
Changes.
Travels.
Is pursued.
Escapes.
And eventually doesn’t.
That’s a rather different lunar archetype.
TIP YOUR HAT TO THE MOON
There are numerous later European folk customs surrounding the new moon — greetings, bows, turning coins, wishes and various things you’re supposed to do or absolutely not do when first seeing it.
I’m wary of assigning any one of these directly to ancient Máni without evidence.
But we don’t need to.
Let’s invent our own tradition.
Next time you see the Moon:
acknowledge him.
If you’re wearing a hat, tip it.
“Evening, Máni.”
That’s it.
No £375 online initiation.
No consecrated silver chalice.
No twelve-week course.
Just establish the relationship.
Do it every time you happen to notice the Moon for a month.
Don’t hunt for him.
Let the encounter happen naturally.
Then observe what happens to your perception.
Because something probably will.
Not necessarily anything supernatural.
You may simply start noticing the Moon far more often.
Its position.
Its phase.
When it appears.
Where you are.
What you’re doing.
And once that happens, Máni has already entered your world.
MÁNI AS GODFORM
Then we can go further.
We’ve already played with Jupiter as godform.
We can do exactly the same thing here.
But first we need to decide what our Máni represents.
Not what some modern rune book tells us he represents.
Start with the surviving material.
The Moon measures time.
It waxes.
It wanes.
It travels through darkness.
It is pursued.
It disappears.
It returns.
There’s enough there.
For me, Máni could become an archetype of:
movement through darkness without losing direction.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
BOOT.VOID
Go outside when the Moon is visible.
Preferably somewhere reasonably quiet.
Look at it.
Then:
BOOT.VOID.
Still the body.
Reduce internal commentary.
Don’t start desperately imagining Viking gods.
Just look.
Actual Moon first.
Mythology second.
Notice its light.
Its apparent size.
The surrounding sky.
Clouds moving across it.
Then introduce the name:
Máni.
Internally or aloud.
Let the astronomical object and mythological image begin overlapping.
Not because you’re convincing yourself they’re literally identical.
Because you’re deliberately creating an imaginal layer over sensory reality.
That’s the experiment.
BRING MÁNI DOWN
Now do something similar to our Jupiter operation.
Imagine the Moon becoming something else.
Perhaps a figure emerges from it.
Perhaps the Moon itself develops presence.
Perhaps nothing visual happens.
Don’t force it.
Then imagine Máni descending.
Sky.
Cloud.
Landscape.
Towards you.
And finally:
into you.
Let yourself become the Man in the Moon.
Quiet.
Cold.
Moving.
Observant.
Travelling through darkness.
Pursued perhaps — but still travelling.
Then introduce whatever situation in your life currently feels uncertain.
Don’t ask Máni to fix it.
Ask:
HOW DO I MOVE THROUGH THIS?
Then shut up.
See what arises.
AND WHAT IF YOU’RE A WOMAN?
Exactly the same thing.
That’s another reason I like godform work.
You don’t have to match the sex of the archetype.
A man can invoke Freyja.
A woman can invoke Odin.
A woman can become Máni.
A man can become Sól.
For ten minutes you’re experimenting with another configuration of the psyche.
If anything, crossing the familiar symbolic gender might make the exercise more interesting.
WHAT ABOUT THE MENSTRUAL MOON?
Nothing happens to it.
If somebody finds the Moon’s relationship with menstruation, fertility and female embodiment profoundly meaningful, excellent.
Keep it.
We’re not replacing one dogma with another.
We’re demonstrating that symbolic systems aren’t laws of physics.
The Moon can be Diana tonight.
Máni tomorrow.
A dead astronomical body on Wednesday.
And on Thursday you can forget about it entirely and watch television.
This is chaos magick territory.
Use the model that produces interesting results.
LAB.COAT
And then, naturally:
LAB.COAT.
Bring the operation to an end.
Imagine the white scientist’s coat.
Arms through.
Button it.
Look upward again.
That’s the Moon.
Approximately 384,400 kilometres away.
Rock.
Dust.
Crater.
No detectable Norse gentleman sitting on it.
Excellent.
Return to baseline.
But record anything interesting.
Dreams.
Associations.
Synchronicities.
Unexpected insights.
Changes in how frequently you notice the Moon.
Nothing at all.
All valid data.
THE SKY ISN’T TELLING US WHAT IT MEANS
That’s perhaps the larger lesson.
Humans looked at the same Sun.
The same Moon.
The same stars.
And saw different gods.
Different genders.
Different stories.
Different powers.
That doesn’t make symbolism useless.
It makes it editable.
And that’s much more interesting.
So next time the Moon appears over the rooftops, fields or trees:
Look up.
Tip your hat.
Evening, Máni.
Then carry on walking.
See what happens.
Results you can use, but not prove.
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