Not a wish list. The wish list is what the dark of the moon is usually asked to hold, and it holds it about as well as any other Tuesday. Write the intention, yes. Then write past it, to the pattern underneath, and put it somewhere with a date on it that cannot be revised when memory gets embarrassed.
First, the honest frame, because this page will not sell you the sky. The moon is a rhythm you do not have to invent: a recurring date for sitting down with yourself, no astrology claims required. Roughly every twenty-nine days the sky goes dark and quietly offers you an appointment. You do not have to believe the moon does anything to you to accept the appointment. The hardest part of any reflective practice is not depth; it is scheduling. The moon solves the scheduling for free, visibly, from anywhere on earth. Take the calendar, leave the claims.
Second, the part most new moon rituals skip. An intention written as a wish is a note to the future. An intention examined is a mirror held up to the present. The prompts below keep steering you from the first to the second, because of the oldest rule in this house: you attract who you are, not what you want. The month ahead will be shaped far more by the pattern you are living than by the sentence you decorate tonight. So the writing goes after the pattern.
One sitting, as many prompts as stay honest. Stop when you start performing.
Prompt three is the trap door in this list, and it only works if last month's writing still exists in its original condition. Here is the uncomfortable truth about intentions: memory edits them. By the full moon you will remember intending whatever the month turned out to deliver, because memory is a loyal employee of your current story. The only defense is a record that cannot be recruited.
That is the point of doing this in LUX rather than in an app with an edit button. What you write on a new moon lands in a file that is dated the day you wrote it and can never be edited or backdated. Next month you sit down at the next dark sky and read what you actually intended, not what you remember intending. Sometimes those two match, and that is worth knowing. Often they do not, and the gap between them is the single most useful piece of information this practice produces. No candle can generate it. Only a date that refuses to move.
And because what you write at a new moon tends to be the unguarded kind, the terms matter: your entries are private, never shared or sold, and yours to hand to any AI or take back. The file is yours in the plain, boring, legal sense of the word. Starting the file is free, no card.
Start your file tonight. The reading that opens it takes about eight minutes, and the next new moon will find you with something to compare.
The moon keeps the appointment. The date keeps you honest. The writing does the rest.