Why We Gather… Ritual as Community

(This essay is also in my Substack)

Over dinner at a friend’s house the other night, I shared my plan to host a women’s art gathering inspired by the new moon—an afternoon of reflection, intention-setting, and creative play. Her husband perked up and said, “I want to come!”

I was a little caught off guard. I think I muttered something like, “You just can’t.” But the moment stuck with me, and I’ve been turning it over since.

Why is this gathering just for women?

The answer, I realize, is two-fold. First: the moon is our ancestor. Women’s bodies have long echoed its rhythm. The word “menstruation” comes from mene, Greek for moon. Our cycles follow the moon’s path—29.5 days of waxing, waning, bleeding, dreaming. For centuries, women marked time by the moon, not the clock.

Second: because we need a room of our own. Too often, our hours are fragmented by caregiving, by expectation, by obligation. The marketplace thrives on our exhaustion and our disconnection from one another. We need spaces where we’re not caring for others, not performing, not explaining. Just being. Just making. Together.

We could all use a “girls’ day out”—an afternoon to feel cosmic again.
To talk about the sky and how it moves us. To acknowledge how the lunar tide rises in our bodies and our moods. To remember that we are cyclical too.

When women come together with intention, something mythic reawakens. Sisterhood.
Creativity. Laughter that comes from the belly.
Stories that carry us through the seasons.

My studio—a barn, really—has been many things over the years: my dad’s chaotic workshop, my paint-splattered loft, a host to generations of kids with paintbrushes and popsicle sticks. There are old Musical instruments up in the catwalk, paper scraps everywhere, and always a table begging to be filled with supplies and people.

When the mix is right, the whole building hums.

For this moon gathering, I want us to tune into that hum—and then look upward. The new moon, nearly invisible, is a time of possibility. It asks us to imagine what could be. To plant seeds—metaphorical and real.

This is not a retreat. It’s not a class. It’s a ritual. A way to return to the rhythm of being, not just doing. To mark time the old way—with the sky.

When we make art together, we practice sacred slowness. We align with natural time. With women’s time. With moon time.

As a lifelong art teacher, I love an assignment with tight parameters—it’s always astonishing how no two results are ever the same. That’s the power of the creative spark we each carry.

So… this month, I’ll gather my girlfriends in the barn, and we’ll begin something. I don’t know what exactly—we never do. Maybe we’ll leave with fresh insights, ideas, or simply lighter hearts. Maybe we’ll laugh, or cry, or sit in satisfying silence. Maybe someone will tell a story that cracks us open a little.

Without men. Without children.
Just us. Just being.