On Full Moons and Oysters

Every year, when Labor Day rolls around, I start think­ing about oysters. 

Growing up, my fam­i­ly would vaca­tion on Cumberland Island, a gold­en isle off the coast of the Georgia-Florida state line acces­si­ble only by boat. We went in the fall or ear­ly win­ter, oys­ter sea­son for this part of the world. We fol­lowed the rule to only eat oys­ters har­vest­ed in months with an R, even though that “rule” went away with bet­ter refrig­er­a­tion tech­niques. Anyway, September was our oys­ter kick-off.

One year, in ear­ly October, we had a full moon par­ty. Our friend George sailed across to Florida and brought back around 30 pounds of oys­ters. He said we would have to “trick them open,” as oys­ters tend to close tighter at the full moon. We threw a grate over the fire pit out back and tossed them on, just long enough for the shells to open with­out actu­al­ly roast­ing them. We’d grab one, pip­ing hot, with our gloved hands, and then wig­gle the knife into the hinge and twist the knife. The shells open with a sat­is­fy­ing pop. Gently knife the adduc­tor mus­cle, the lit­tle bit of oys­ter that is still affixed to the shell. Add a lit­tle cock­tail sauce (lots of horse­rad­ish, please) and a squeeze of lemon for absolute per­fec­tion. We drank ice-cold cham­pagne to accom­pa­ny and ate oys­ters until our bel­lies hurt, the back­yard bright enough from the fire and the full moon that we didn’t need lights.

The oys­ter has so much to teach us about being alive. It’s absolute­ly true that they clam up dur­ing a full moon. Even when removed from the tides, oys­ters still open and close their shells accord­ing to the lunar cycle. Scientists have observed this aston­ish­ing behav­ior in lab­o­ra­to­ry con­di­tions. When the tides no longer lap at their shells and the sun­light is arti­fi­cial, oys­ters still obey the pull of the moon. This from a crea­ture that has no brain and the most prim­i­tive of ner­vous systems! 

It’s as though the moon whis­pers to them from afar, and they remem­ber. They remem­ber the rhythm of the waves, the com­ing and going of the tides, the ancient chore­og­ra­phy of grav­i­ty and water. They lis­ten, and they respond.

In a world that often feels dis­con­nect­ed – from nature, from each oth­er, from our own inter­nal rhythms – the oys­ter reminds us to realign. To pause. To ask.

 What is my moon? 

What tide do I belong to? 

What am I being pulled toward, qui­et­ly and inevitably, whether or not the world around me sees it?

Oysters teach us that the rhythms that mat­ter most are often invis­i­ble. That the moon, though far away, has the pow­er to move oceans and the soft inte­ri­ors of small beings. And if a shell­fish at the bot­tom of the sea can live by the moon’s light, sure­ly we, too, can find a rhythm that stead­ies us, even in the dark.

Let the oys­ter be your guide to lis­ten more deeply. Move more slow­ly. Honor the tides with­in. And when your world for­gets how to be in rhythm, remem­ber the oys­ter, and fol­low the moon.