In Turkic folk tradition the moon is always a grandfather. Not a father, a grandfather. This small choice of word is not accidental.

In many mythologies the moon is a young goddess or a hunter running with a silver bow; in the Turkic world the moon is a patient, elderly close relative who brings gifts to a child. He is not at the top of a hierarchy. He is open to your lap.

" As Bahaeddin Ogel reports in his compendium, this naming softened as the Turkic-Altai forms of Ay Ata and Ay Khan passed into Anatolia, turning into a more intimate, more affectionate relative. The moon is no longer a political ruler but an elder of the family.

This softness has kept the moon free of fear. What is feared is the lunar eclipse, not the moon itself. Because during the eclipse something is happening to the grandfather. Pots are struck for him; he is in danger.

The lunar eclipse is one of the oldest shared fears of the Turkic world. In the old Turkic astronomical tradition, the thing that attacks the moon is often a dragon; in the Altai tradition, a great monster called Yelbegen. Bahaeddin Ogel writes that in some versions Yelbegen has seven heads and in others twelve, and that he tries to tear pieces from the silver of the moon.

While the eclipse lasts, grandfather sinks into darkness, because the monster is swallowing his light.

This is why people strike pots, spoons, and cauldrons. Dogs are made to bark, and at times rifles are fired at the sky. The noise will frighten the monster and help the grandfather escape from its mouth.

Folk belief holds that even after the eclipse ends, the moon is still trembling; that night children are told not to go out, and pregnant women close the window.

In some branches of the epic of Manas the moon is eclipsed just before a hero is born, the sky goes black, and then the moon shines again with the hero's birth. This mythic pattern places the lunar eclipse on the same bed as a personal labour pain. The darkness is a passing tension; the moon comes back, grandfather speaks again, the children wave once more.

Grandfather Moon's symbols are gentle but layered. The crescent is the most loved face of the moon, since the rising moon and the setting moon are both crescents, beginning and end meeting on the same line. Silver is considered the moon's material counterpart on earth; the silver coins fastened to a bride at a Turkish wedding, the silver amulet hung on a baby, the silver ornaments on a kam's belt, all are bound to him.

White felt, in the old nomadic tradition, is the woven form of moonlight; a baby is wrapped in white felt and entrusted to Tengri and to the moon.

In Anatolian folk practice the moon is most remembered on festival nights. The crescent of Ramadan has been passed down from one generation to the next as a sign of joy, but the feeling for the crescent is older than Islam; Islam took up the old reflex with affection. Folk rules such as "one does not spit toward the moon, only toward the qibla" underline the hidden respect that the moon deserves.

Perhaps the most moving aspect is that the moonlight lights the way of the departed. On festival nights candles are placed at cemeteries; on that night the grandfather's silver opens a path for those who have not yet fully found their way. As Eliade observed in many northern Eurasian traditions, the moon binds the living and the dead with a soft bridge.

The bridge is not as sharp as the sun's; it does not cut the line harshly. It passes over a silver veil.

What does Grandfather Moon say to us today? His astrological echo is, naturally, the Moon: the ruler of feeling, inner life, sleep and dream. Yet the title "grandfather" in the Turkic tradition adds an unusual nuance. He is not only emotion, he is gentle wisdom.

The Grandfather Moon within us is the capacity to step out of the daytime hurry and listen to the knowledge that gathers within in the silence of the night. How does a grandfather sound? Unhurried, carrying his authority without raising his voice, his words missed when we were small and ripening into worth as we grow.

The voice of intuition just before sleep, the single detail of a dream remembered in the morning, the inner side of a decision whispering "not yet," all belong to his domain.

His shadow is passivity. When Grandfather Moon energy loses its balance, it sacrifices clarity to soften the truth, it can turn night knowledge into an escape. The myth prevents this.

The grandfather brings a gift to the child, but the child must reach out a hand to take it. Moonlight is not passive; one reaches toward it. A decision ripens at night, and in the morning a hand is offered.