Where the Moon Goes to Remember
Amāvasyā, the ancestors, and the lunar day when memory grows quiet
The Moon is almost gone.
On April 26th/27th, we’ll have a New Moon in Aśvinī nakṣatra – the first lunation this month not knotted into the into the intense Pisces’s pile-up, flavored by the eclipse. A little more breath; a little more space.
This is the beginning of a short series. Tonight’s post is a meditation on Amāvasyā, as the New Moon is called in Sanskrit. Tomorrow, I’ll share a house-by-house look at the Aśvinī New Moon for paid subscribers. Then: a devotional piece on the goddess Kalī. Next week, once the New Moon energy has passed, I’ll offer thoughts on remedies for those born under Amāvasyā.
For now, we begin with the dark.
The weight of stillness
There’s a kind of stillness on the night of the New Moon that doesn’t come from quiet, but from something deeper – like the world itself is holding its breath.
The moon is gone from the sky, pulled so close to the sun that it disappears. This is the night of Amāvasyā, as the New Moon is called in Sanskrit.
No reflected light. No soft silver companion light. Just darkness.
The taste of emptiness
In Vedic astrology, each lunar day – or tithi – is a slice of emotional time. Amāvasyā is the last of them, the 30th, when the Moon has waned to nothing. No light, no juice.
This tithi is ruled by Rāhu, the north node of the Moon, which is associated with shadows, karma, disconnection, and forgotten things. Amāvasyā belongs to the rikta group of tithis – literally, the “emptied.”
On this night, there is no nourishing lunar light to soften the world’s edges. The Moon, which represents the mind, is overwhelmed by the Sun’s brilliance. This is not an easy place for the mind to dwell.
This tithi has a strange power. Its darkness holds the seed of light. Just as the rooster crows before dawn, Amāvasyā is what comes just before a new beginning.
Amāvasyā is not a time for starting something new, achieving, or even understanding. It’s a time to listen. A time to let the mind grow soft enough to hear what doesn’t speak in words.
A night for the ancestors
If you feel the dead are near you on this night, you are not imagining it.
Amāvasyā is also called Pitṛ Tithi – the day of the ancestors. According to the tradition, this is when the veil thins, and those who came before us draw close. Especially those who were never fully honored, or whose stories remain unresolved.
This is the night to pour water, to light a lamp, to speak their names aloud. The classical texts say that tarpana – libations of sesame and water – offered on Amāvasyā reach even the most distant (or restless) of ancestors.
But the rituals and communication need not be elaborate. Sometimes the simple act of remembering is enough to shift something in the unseen.
You can sit in stillness. You can write them a letter. You can whisper their names to the roots of a tree.
Sincerity counts. So does silence.
In the darkness, the line between time and memory softens.
If you were born on Amāvasyā
In many classical sources, a New Moon birth is described as durdina-jāta – a birth under difficult stars.
Not because the soul is flawed, but because the Moon, which governs the mind (manas), is entirely without light. In Vedic astrology, this means no shelter, no emotional cooling. The Moon is combust, hidden in the Sun’s brilliance, and Rāhu lords over the day.
The results of a birth on Amāvasyā vary depending on the chart, but classical authors like Nārada and Parāśara note tendencies toward disconnection, ancestral entanglement, health problems, or suffering related to the mother or father, depending on the Moon’s half in the tithi.
Some traditions say that trees – especially those lovingly tended – can offer a kind of protection to these people that temples do not.
I’ll write more about this in my post next week.
Ending in stillness
This night is not a mistake in the calendar. It is a gate.
A pause between cycles.
A moment when the visible disappears, and the invisible speaks.
A time for the kinds of prayers that do not need words.
Let the Moon disappear.
Let the dark hold you.
Let the ancestors come close.
Take shelter in the trees
Michelle R. Dean is a Vedic astrologer and writer based in Berlin. To find out more about Michelle, swing by here.