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I once saw a cartoon of a Japanese learner baffled by the question, 月が好きですか, tsuki ga suki desu ka - “do you like the moon?” If you want to answer in the affirmative, you can say 月が好きです, “tsuki ga suki desu” (and if you've fallen in love with the sound of Japanese, you can add 果物も好きです, kudamono mo suki desu, “I also like fruit”).
I like the moon and always have. As a child, I treasured the illustration of Selene falling in love with Endymion in my well-worn D'Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths. I got annoyed if I heard anyone describe Artemis as the moon goddess, failing to give Selene her due. It didn't bother me that I was accusing many ancient Greeks of not doing Greek mythology properly. The moon deserved respect.
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About 20 years ago, my husband and I went to a local park to watch a lunar eclipse. At the time (as in all times) there was much hand-wringing in the British media about out-of-control youth, and I hadn't yet learnt to question it. So I felt nervous when a loud group of teenage boys approached, and even more nervous when they stopped and followed our gaze to the sky.
“It's the moon, innit?” said one, and the others laughed.
“There's going to be an eclipse,” I said, and immediately felt my mouth go dry.
An exclamation rippled through the group, and they started looking with real interest, arguing among themselves about whether an eclipse was good or bad luck. One of them asked me. “It's good luck,” I said, as if I knew.
A few of them wanted to stay to watch, but they had somewhere else to be, so they headed off with “Have a good night!”
“You too,” we said, and meant it.
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There's a popular story in Japan about the great novelist Natsume Sōseki, author of I Am a Cat and other works. Supposedly, while teaching Japanese to English-speakers, he chastised one for translating “I love you” too directly. “If you're Japanese,” he said, “you can just say 月が綺麗ですね (tsuki ga kireidesu ne, isn't the moon beautiful?).”
This sounds to me like the kind of story that first appears in print in an obscure newspaper column years after its subject dies, but it's not my place to look into it.
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About 12 years ago, I decided to write 29½ poems about the moon. I made a point of observing the moon in each phase (it took several months to get them all) and writing a poem on each occasion loosely following the Japanese tanka form (though I edited many of them later).
In the midst of this process, I had to have a brain scan and other neurological tests. When I felt dizzy from looking at the sky too quickly, or got up with a dull headache in the middle of the night, the moon felt like a constant to hold on to.
The scan showed my brain was “unremarkable,” and I was eventually diagnosed with vestibular migraine. Some studies have found that migraine attacks are more frequent when the moon is in a less visible phase.
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I think I first heard about East and Southeast Asian moon-viewing festivals from a Christian teacher who wanted to warn us about such idolatry. It backfired: I thought cultures that found the moon worth celebrating must be doing something right.
月, with its suggestion of a crescent moon, means either “moon” or “month” on its own. It can also turn up in seemingly unrelated words, where it sometimes hints at past mythology. For example, 月桂樹 (gekkeiju) means “laurel tree” because of the legend of Wu Gang, the “Chinese Sisyphus,” condemned to perpetually chop down a self-healing laurel tree on the moon as punishment for improperly seeking immortality. That legend didn't become part of Japanese culture, but the word did.
In Japan, by contrast, a selfless rabbit that offered its flesh to the Buddha is rewarded by being placed on the moon to pound rice for mochi. Presumably it's happy to do so.
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When news of the Artemis II mission crept up on me, as so many once-extraordinary things creep up these days, my heart sank. Surely a world that valued its moon should keep the Americans away from it. The mythology of the 1960s moon missions had well and truly worn off (and had never captured everyone anyway; the documentary Summer of Soul shows attendees at the Harlem Cultural Festival reacting to the news of the first moon landing with mild interest at best, feeling that what they were creating on earth was just as meaningful).
My mind was changed slightly when I saw happy and excited reactions to Artemis II on social media. “My only space memory as a child is Columbia,” wrote one young Bluesky user. “I'm happy to see something go right!”
Still, I hope I don't look up and see Trump's face one day.
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Fukuyama Masaharu recently released a concert film whose title translates as “Moonlight: I've Always Been Connected to This Light.” I won't get to see it until it comes out on DVD, but one of the trailers on YouTube begins with Masha pointing out the waxing gibbous moon above the stadium and telling his audience, “It's wonderful to see the same moon as everyone.”
Like many J-pop stars, Masha frequently mentions the moon and other natural elements in his songs. One of my favourites is 東京にもあったんだ (Tokyo ni mo attanda, “there was one in Tokyo too”):
There was one in Tokyo too,
Such a beautiful moon.
I'm glad. I wonder if you're watching too?
I got my oshi-nui (cuddly toy representing a favourite star) from Masha's fanclub shortly before the autumn full-moon-viewing festival. Naturally, I took him moon-gazing. The moonlight does connect us.