At 3,200 metres, the full moon rises with a clarity rarely seen elsewhere. The Sangke grasslands glow under its soft light, turning familiar paths silver. During the brief summer months, these are the nights at Norden Camp when one feels compelled to do something out of the ordinary, to wander out on a full-moon hike, or sit by the bonfire a little longer, savouring that one extra drink.
It was on such a night that we asked the elders about the moon and its significance on the Tibetan Plateau.
They told us that the moon has always been both guiding and cautionary. For many, the full moon symbolises wisdom and clarity, a brightness that reveals and softens. Yet illumination also stirs what lies beneath; what is bright outside can awaken what rests inside. Just as waters surge under the moon’s pull, humans, made largely of water, feel that tug too, quickening the seeds of ignorance, anger, and desire within us.
Long ago, when people first settled these high grasslands, the gods noticed that the full moon stirred human emotions: longing sharpened, anger rose, cravings grew. From these inner tides, the demon took shape.
It does not roam in open spaces but lingers at the edges of bright things. On full-moon nights it is strongest, slipping into thoughts through whatever glimmers the shine of a cup, a reflection in water, a line of moonlight across a floor. It feeds not on flesh but on excess: wanting-more, impatience, jealousy, the small unsteadiness that gather beneath the ribs.
The elders say:
“When the moon is full, the mind is too.
A full vessel spills with the smallest shake.”
Because of this, the 1st, 8th, and 15th days of the lunar cycle became days of fasting, the 1st for the stillness of the new moon, the 8th as energies rise, and the 15th when the moon is fullest and emotions most easily stirred. These rhythms helped steady the mind before the tides grew too strong.
As the elders remind us:
“The demon is not an enemy.
It is a mirror.
What rises in the full moon
is what already lives inside us.”
