Once upon a time we danced with the Moon

Time was not owned.
It was not numbered, traded, or ruled.
It was watched, listened to, and followed.

The Moon was its keeper.

She grew round and bright, then thinned and disappeared, only to return again—thirteen times in a year that breathed rather than marched. People knew when to gather by her fullness, when to release by her waning, and when to begin again by her return. The Sun marked the thresholds, crossing star-gates that were named not after emperors, but after qualities of life itself.

But another time arrived.

It came dressed in stone and authority, crowned with Roman numerals and sealed by decree. It built cages from months, bars from calendars, and taught the world to look down at clocks instead of up at the sky. Caesars and popes blessed it, money learned to ride it, and London became the place where time was fixed in place—meant to mean the same thing everywhere, for everyone.

Still, something ancient never forgot.

At the opening of the year, beneath the Wolf Moon, Sirius rose—bright, unwavering, the Spiritual Sun. The Egyptians called her Sopdet, and beside her sailed Sah, Orion, father of the gods, who later became known as Osiris. Kings once believed they would rise as Sah after death, crossing the sky in a celestial boat, Orion’s Belt crowning their heads. When Sirius rose before the Sun, the Nile flooded, life returned to the land, and the calendar was renewed—not by command, but by light.

This knowledge never vanished.
It waited.

In this calendar, the thirteen Full Moons of 2026 return to their circular dance, moving anticlockwise, the way the sky remembers. Each Moon carries her moment, her sign, her culmination. Inside the lunar ring, the old clock still ticks—but now it is seen for what it is: a construct, not a law.

Over it lies the cage.
And in its bars are written the names we were taught to live by.

But the cage is broken open.

A dragonfly slips through the bent wires—light-bodied, precise, awake. In the Gene Keys, the dragonfly speaks of the New Human: no longer ruled by fear or survival, but guided by timing, awareness, and inner truth. Another dragonfly mirrors her flight, tracing the Moon’s sideways figure-eight—waxing and waning, becoming and unbecoming.

Below, the winged hand of Isis waits among moonlit pyramids, where time was once read in shadows and stars. Orion and Sirius shine overhead, reminding us that calendars were once written in the sky, not on paper.

Above, the escape continues.

Two more dragonflies rise, and beyond them a woman leaps—dancing out of the circle entirely. She no longer measures time. She moves with it. Her body remembers when to act and when to rest. The Moon teaches her. The Sun warms her. The stars keep her company.

This calendar is for those who feel that call.

Not to abandon the world—but to step sideways out of the cage while still walking within it. To remember that before time was counted, it was felt. Sung by the Moon. Remembered by the body.

Once upon a time is not the past.

It's an invitation to feel the Moon's song

An invitation to dance along...

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