Lunar planting
An awareness that this might be completely wacky
I was working at the Institute of Psychiatry in Denmark Hill, South London, when I had an interview for their clinical doctorate. They had a reputation for being fearsomely academic but the only difference for me on that particular day was that I came to work in my sharpest suit and without a hangover. I was living on Tower Bridge Road in my early twenties; it was not a given that I came to work entirely fit.
The interview did not get off to a good start. I was asked to define three different sorts of experimental validity and despite having lectured widely on research methods and statistics, I had only heard of two of them. Psychologists, attempting to be experts in something as nebulous and slippery as the human condition, were so petrified of being perceived as lightweight hippies and navel gazers, that they annexed the identity of rigorous and detached scientists as a defence. My first degree contained more maths than philosophy, and my training a boringly repetitive emphasis on outcome measures, evidence-based practice and randomised controlled trials.
It was therefore with not without significant trepidation that I put a toe into the biodynamic world. It is, at first glance, as utterly meaningless as astrology. All star signs and cosmic forces and pulls like the tides. An old sort of magic, reflecting the chronicity of the relationship between human beings and the land.
Let’s start with the moon.
This is an essay about lunar planting and the bus can stop here without going onto the terminus of full biodynamics. All you need to do at this stage is to accept that there is such a thing as tides, and to recognise that seeds, plants and flowers contain water.
I accidentally bought a book on this sort of lunar planting, called ‘Moon Gardening’ when I saw a copy perched in amongst the ciders for sale at Coombeshead Farm on our way to Cornwall. The front cover contained a recommendation from Mark Diacono and I took that as a solid endorsement. This is what I am going to be describing here. However, you should know that both I and Charles Dowding have gone further into the wilderness and we embrace the full biodynamics.
My moon chart by Tuckitin Quilts
Moon Gardening
Firstly, you need to understand the four quarters of the moon, and then the four phases in between. This is written from the perspective of me, here. If you are in the Southern Hemisphere you will have to reverse everything. I still haven’t got over seeing Orion the Hunter upside down above the Outback in Australia so don’t expect me to get my head around this one for you.
New Moon
Waxing Crescent Moon
First Quarter Moon
Waxing Gibbous Moon
Full Moon
Waning Gibbous Moon
Third Quarter Moon
Waning Crescent Moon
& back to New moon again
If nothing else, ‘gibbous’ is such a wonderful word. You could win scrabble with a word like that.
‘The first day of the first quarter is new moon, when the moon is not visible in the sky. At this point, the strength of the moon’s gravitational pull on Earth is at its weakest. The pull increases from this low point throughout the first and second quarters. By the end of the second quarter (full moon) and at the start of the third, the gravitational pull is at its strongest. As soon as the third quarter begins, the strength of the pull begins to fade. It keeps ebbing throughout the third and fourth quarters until you reach the end of the fourth quarter, by which time you’re at new moon again. Earth’s water table responds to this never-ending rise and fall of gravitational pull. It rises as the moon’s gravitational pull increases and it falls back as it decreases.’
Moon Gardening by John Harris
Image from ‘Moon Gardening’
WHY THE RISE AND FALL OF THE WATER TABLE MATTERS
When the water table rises it exerts upward pressure. The moisture beneath your garden soil rises with it. This increases the concentration of moisture content at exactly the level in the topsoil where we gardeners do our gardening. This unfailing act of nature will carry on until the moon stops orbiting Earth. It is of great help to us, especially during periods of low rainfall in the summer, but with careful and aware gardening you can benefit throughout the year. Here’s how …
In my own mind, this can best be understood as the pressure being released from the upper layers of soil, drying them out, as the water table drops, and increased as the water table rises again.
Things to do when the pressure is being drawn down (Third quarter moon to a new moon)
Dig if you are going to dig, which you aren’t obviously, but ‘Moon Gardening’ was written before the No Dig Revolution
Applying compost, manure, top dressing, or any fertiliser such as comfrey/compost teas
Pruning. The closer to the new moon the better. Upwards pressure affects both the soil (pushing moisture into the plant) and also the sap and moisture within the plant. Pruning leaves wounds on the plant, areas of escaping moisture where the protective wrapping has been removed. You don’t want them to dry out too quickly.
Harvest fruit and vegetables for storage, flowers for drying – the levels of moisture in the plant are lower and so rot is less likely.
Things to do as the pressure and moisture is increasing (first quarter moon to the full moon)
Sow seeds. John Harris advises slow germinators and root crops are sown between a new moon and the first quarter moon, and the above ground plants between the first quarter and the new moon, but you can take it or leave it I reckon. Anecdotally, I have heard that the week just before a full moon is absolute dynamite for germinating seeds, whichever lunar planting method you are using. Water and nutrient rich moisture has been drawn closet to the surface and is most readily available for seeds and any emerging shoots. Ditto young plants, so this is the time for planting out.
Harvest fruit from the bush and eat it in the garden. Pick and pod peas and pop them in your mouth like sweets. Sap and moisture will be peak now so think luscious, chin-coating, exploding plums and the most perfect, decadently summer strawberries. They won’t store as well, but they will be absolute exquisite and of their own moment.
Why the week before and not on the full moon? Because as soon as the full moon has passed, the moisture levels will start to drop. Giving them a bit of time at this peak, rather than when it is just starting to drop off, will be of maximum benefit.
Too long; didn’t read. The soil is at its driest around the new moon and the moisture in the soil has been dropping off for a week or so. Think drawing down. Now if the time for feeding the soil, pruning, and harvesting for storage. Around the full moon, the moisture is being pushed up (think lifting towards the sky) and so this is the time for germinating seeds, planting out young plants, harvesting for peak decadence.
Top tip: The moons in March and April are particularly powerful and many weed seeds will sit in the soil, maybe even for years, and then swell and germinate around the full moons of spring. Mark out a few hours in your diary for some light hoeing around that time and you’ll be giving your future self an absolute gift. Just to save you having to look it up, it is in the Calendar.
A word of warning
The moon can drive you mad. The origin of the word lunatic is no coincidence, and every paramedic, psychiatric nurse and policeman I know avoids the night shift around the full moon. Feeling like I am constantly out of time or doing something wrong will destroy any happiness I derive from growing beautiful things. I adore the moon, but I cannot let it rule me. I will look at the sky, I will check my calendar, I will do my best to follow the rhythm of the pushes and pulls of the sun and the stars, but if my sweet peas need planting out today, then plant them I will.
If you would like a bit more, here is my biodynamic hero, Jane Scotter.