Traditionally, the full moon of February is called the Snow Moon or the Storm Moon. These names come from the observations of Native American tribes and the cultures of Northern Europe. February, a month of storms and snowfall, is a tightrope walker balancing between winter and spring—on one side, the frost, on the other, the first timid hints of sunlight and the bulbs pushing through the still dark, rain-soaked earth, embroidered with morning frost that sometimes lingers. The full moon of February carried the whiteness of the last winter snows and the darkness of tempests, but also the sense of endurance and survival—qualities that have faded over time, yet traces of them can still be found.
Yesterday afternoon, here in Italy, among the mountains of the Apennines, a thick fog descended and wrapped everything in its embrace. But late at night, it began to clear, and suddenly the clouds started racing across the sky. In the darkness, the moon appeared. I threw open the window and stood there, watching. The full moon looked immense, with a strange and wonderful reddish hue. Breathing in front of the moon on a winter night—what energy.
Imagine the night of the Snow Moon, a moment suspended in time, when the silver light of the full moon illuminates endless landscapes covered in white. Vast forests—centuries, millennia ago, much more expansive than they are today. In a time when the world was darker, full moon nights stood out. The light. The sudden, absolute moonlight overturning the night and illuminating the frozen meadows, the trails, the lakes. And with snow, even more so—an overwhelming, pure world in its essence.
The silence of winter is broken only by the distant echo of a howl. On this February night, the bond between the wolf and the moon grows stronger—an invisible thread linking sky and earth, past and present, myth and reality. It would be wonderful, on this full moon night, to imagine standing in an ancient, snow-covered forest: at the center of a clearing, in the white reflection, breath suspended between fear and anticipation, merging with the mist, the sky clear and infinite, dotted with bright stars. And then, a sound—the call of the wolf breaking the silence, an ancient cry speaking to the soul.
Snow Moon, Hunger Moon. Because in this time of year, supplies would already be running low—an invitation to listen and confront the winter of the soul. A hope for spring, and a sacred reverence for all that is greater than us, capable of devouring, of killing and being killed—a force of survival.
Another name for the full moon of February was the Hunger Moon. In many Native American cultures, this was the time when the food stores gathered in autumn began to dwindle. The frozen ground made hunting more difficult; the cold nights and lack of resources turned the Hunger Moon into a symbol of sacrifice and endurance, but also of tenacity and the will to live—an attachment to survival against all odds. February was seen as a month of transition, a time when the community had to rely on its ability to endure until the thaw.
From this perspective, the Hunger Moon is directly connected to Imbolc, the ancient Celtic festival celebrated around the first of February, marking the first signs of spring’s rebirth. Imbolc was dedicated to the goddess Brigid, protector of fire, fertility, and healing—the embodiment of light beginning to triumph over winter darkness. During this celebration, candles were lit, and purification rituals were performed to prepare for the new season, symbolizing a passage between the old and the new cycle of life. The festival of light would return, centuries later, in the Christian celebration of Candlemas, widespread in rural traditions until the 20th century. Just as the Hunger Moon marked the challenge of the last cold days and scarcity, Imbolc was an invitation to hope, a preparation for the rebirth of nature, and a welcoming of the first signs of change.
The frost preserves the seed of spring, the night guards the promise of dawn.
For humans, too, February and the Snow Moon are a time of stillness—inner reflection. Motionless, standing before the sea, watching the storms rage in the icy waters. Motionless, breathing among the trees, listening to the rustling of snow falling from the branches.
In folklore, the Snow Moon represents the peak of winter and the anticipation of spring. Shamans used the snow in purification rituals—a way to release the old and prepare for renewal, both within and in nature.
Under the Snow Moon, everything seems still, yet life pulses beneath the surface—an existence still hidden, like the bulbs of snowdrops barely breaking through the earth. The seeds have been sown; they will bloom in spring. For now, the earth holds them, swallows them. On certain days, when the frost tightens its grip even on the spirit, and the snow blankets everything in an infinite layer, fear sets in—that the earth may never return those seeds, that they are lost, buried forever in darkness and decay.
We must imagine a world much harsher than the one we live in today. A world where firewood was precious but scarce, where warm clothing and a hearth were vital, but so was a greater tolerance for the cold. A world where winter, in certain places, could feel like a long, dark tunnel with no guaranteed exit.
Now imagine sitting down: the night is cold and silent. It happens less and less often now, to sit outside on a winter night and gaze at the moon. The cold on our skin and the glow of the moon in the night were once part of a greater ritual. Today, we take a quick glance and rush to close the door behind us. And yet…
Find The Route is part of the project Biblioteca del Tempo
If you like you can read this post in Italian here: Luna piena di febbraio
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