She is rising.

In just a couple of days, the Pink Full Moon will lift herself above the horizon — the first full moon to follow the spring equinox, arriving right on time, as she always has.

Her name is not what you might imagine. The sky won’t blush rose or soften into pink. She is named for the wild ground phlox — Phlox subulata, a creeping wildflower native to eastern North America — one of the first flowers of spring, carpeting the woodland floor in pink bloom right as the April moon swells full. The Old Farmer’s Almanac began publishing these Indigenous moon names in the 1930s, but the knowing behind them is far older than any almanac. She has also been called the Breaking Ice Moon, the Moon When the Streams Are Again Navigable, the Moon When the Ducks Come Back — all names rooted in the land’s own language, in the lived, embodied relationship between people and the world turning around them.

In Celtic and Germanic folk traditions, the April full moon was associated with spring planting lore — a time for celebration, rest, and communal gathering after the hard work of early planting. In Neopagan and Wiccan traditions, this moon is sometimes called the Growing Moon or the Wind Moon, associated with new beginnings and the blossoming of intentions set at the spring equinox.

Across time and tradition, the message is the same: the ground is ready. The season is asking you to grow.

Whatever you have been wanting to begin — felt the pull toward, held quietly in your hands without releasing it into the world — this is the moon. This is the season. This is your yes.

Rituals to work with her:

Make moon water. Fill a glass jar with water and place it outside under the open sky, or on a windowsill in her direct light. Let the moon do what she does. In the morning, you hold charged water — use it for your plants, your face, the floors of your home. Pour it at thresholds. Use it wherever you want to carry her energy forward.

Bless your seeds. Whether you are planting literal seeds in soil or speaking metaphorical ones into the world, hold them in your hands and speak your intentions into them. Leave them under the moon overnight. In the morning, plant them — and use your moon water to tend them. There is something quietly powerful about beginning in the place where earth and sky have already met.

Write it down. Put words to what you are calling in this season. What are you growing? What have you been circling, waiting to step fully into? Write it plainly, write it boldly. A declaration under a full moon carries weight.

Go outside. Simple and irreplaceable. Stand under her. Let the cool spring air meet your skin. Feel the particular quality of light that only a full moon casts — that silver that makes everything look like it remembers something. Let yourself be witnessed by the sky.

She is not pink. But she arrives at the exact moment the earth is turning pink beneath her — wildflowers opening, ice releasing, rivers finding their way again. There is a reason cultures across the world have paused here, in this moonlit threshold between the cold and the warm, and said: now. Begin now.

You already know what you’re beginning.