Luminary Geometry: An LED Lunar-Period Calendar at the Intersection of Art, Technology, and Bodily Autonomy
Luminary Geometry was born at a critical historical moment. In June 2022, the United States Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, a decision that immediately reverberated across the globe. As a woman and a maker, I found myself grappling with rage and shock, asking: when society attempts to strip away bodily autonomy, how can we respond in our own way? During those weeks, countless voices urged people to delete their period-tracking apps, to avoid sharing cycle data with doctors or even partners, for fear that intimate information might one day be used as incriminating evidence. Something as natural as menstruation—an inherent rhythm of the body—was suddenly reframed as a dangerous secret that had to be hidden. Against this backdrop, I felt compelled to create something new: a tool that would let me track my cycle privately, while also offering comfort and strength through its aesthetics and symbolism. I turned to light, geometry, and circuitry, and gradually, the LED geometric calendar came into being.
The seed of the idea came from a geometry course I had recently completed. It focused on Islamic geometric design, a tradition that has fascinated me with its symmetry, balance, and infinite expansion. Islamic geometry is more than decoration—it is a visual language for expressing cosmic order. Through repeated drawing and analysis, I began to grasp the philosophy embedded within these patterns. Soon, a new thought took hold: could I merge the elegance of geometry with the luminous potential of electronic light? I shared the idea with my collaborator, arturo182. After sifting through numerous motifs, we settled on the ten-pointed star as the central element for our circuit board. This choice was not only aesthetically pleasing but also deeply personal, as I had discovered it in a geometric design book from my late grandfather’s library in India. The star was no longer just a pattern; it was a form of inheritance, a lineage translated into light.
Once simulated in software, the pattern was transformed into circuit design. Using KiCad, arturo182 created a board containing roughly 250 LEDs, arranged in a 6×5 grid. Each grid unit formed a ten-pointed star composed of ten individual diodes. For the board’s physical finish, we chose a purple solder mask, white silkscreen, and gold plating—colors that evoked both modernity and the illumination traditions of Islamic art. Our initial goal was modest: to experiment with the NeoPixel library, craft dazzling light effects, and enjoy the tactile satisfaction of making. But when the board lit up for the first time, I realized it carried much deeper potential.
At first, the flickering animations dazzled the eyes but overwhelmed the quiet dignity of the geometry. They were beautiful but distracting, masking the contemplative quality of the design. I longed for the light to feel gentler, more like a steady breath than a neon spectacle. And so I began searching for balance between illumination and geometry. Around the same time, I was immersing myself in lunar cycles. The phases of the moon—new, waxing, full, waning—have guided human rituals for millennia. They symbolize renewal, growth, decline, and rest, and they are especially linked to women’s cycles and fertility. In the ordered harmony of Islamic geometry, I recognized a resonance with the lunar rhythm.
I began treating each star unit as a tiny moon, using LEDs to illustrate its phase. Ten LEDs formed a circle; when all were lit, it became a full moon. When half were illuminated, it represented first or third quarter. When all were lit but in a deeper hue, it embodied the new moon, the silent beginning. With 30 units, the board could map out an entire lunar month. And since lunar months alternate between 29 and 30 days, the board’s structure aligned neatly with reality.
At first, I used white light to depict the moon, adjusting brightness to show waxing and waning. Yet soon, I felt this was emotionally flat. I experimented with twilight hues—deep purples, muted reds, and dusk-like magentas. Using an RGB color tool, I refined a palette that felt mysterious, poetic, and resonant. Full and half moons were given a dark purple (#190033), new moons a shadowed magenta (#0F000F). They shimmered softly, like distant stars embedded in the geometry.
As the Roe v. Wade news intensified, my project took on new significance. The menstrual cycle and lunar rhythm have always been intertwined; in many ancient cultures, the moon was a metaphor for women’s cycles. If lunar phases represented cosmic order, then menstruation embodied bodily order. I decided to entwine the two, displaying both moon phases and menstrual days on the same board. The moon would stand for nature’s cycles, menstruation for the body’s cycles. Together, they became an implicit defiance of societal control. For menstruation, I chose a deep rose (#330019), a shade that carried dignity without obvious references to blood, a color that felt symbolic and strong. On days marked as period days, several stars glowed with this hue, side by side with lunar phases. These lights no longer represented data to be hidden—they became luminous poetry, solemn yet beautiful.
The programming itself was straightforward. Each star unit contained ten LEDs, indexed in an array. Functions were written to display different lunar phases or period days: show_fullmoon, show_firstquarter, show_thirdquarter, show_newmoon, and period. At the beginning of each month, I manually updated the program with lunar and cycle information. This might seem inconvenient, but it also meant absolute privacy and autonomy. There was no reliance on external servers or applications, no fear of data breaches. The very act of manually updating became intimate, a way to connect with my cycle more consciously.
Gradually, the board transcended its role as a technical experiment and became a symbol of empowerment. It allowed me to visualize my bodily rhythms and to articulate a response to a society demanding silence and erasure. While others sought to conceal, I chose to illuminate—not for public display, but for myself.
When I shared the project, feedback flowed in. Some suggested adding a “breathing light” effect, letting the glow pulse gently like organic rhythms. Others envisioned Bluetooth connectivity for easier cycle updates, or educational applications where students could learn about lunar and bodily cycles in a tactile way. These responses revealed that Luminary Geometry was more than a personal artwork—it had potential as a communal tool, sparking dialogue and imagination.
Artistically, the project revitalized traditional geometry in a digital medium. The lines and stars carried echoes of spiritual thought, while the LEDs lent them contemporary presence. Socially, it addressed urgent debates about bodily autonomy, data privacy, and gender politics. It was not merely a physical object but a stance, a form of resistance. On a personal level, it encouraged me to reflect on the relationship between body and cosmos, cultivating an inner sense of order and balance.
When I sat before the board, watching period days glow alongside lunar phases, I felt a resonance between body and universe. That calm connection reassured me: despite external uncertainties and oppressive forces, natural rhythms—whether cosmic or corporeal—remain intact, untouchable. It was in this realization that I rediscovered the essence of making: not just to construct an object, but to find a voice through creation. Luminary Geometry became a unique expression—art and tool, resistance and healing. It reminded me that while technology can serve surveillance and control, it can also be reclaimed as a medium of freedom and beauty.
This was the answer I found in a time of rage and anxiety: to translate cycles into light, to render geometry into order, to let the body and nature converse through electronic circuitry. In an era bent on restricting women’s choices, such a creation may seem modest, yet for me, it reasserted presence in luminous patterns, steady and unyielding.
By refusing to hide, by choosing instead to illuminate, I discovered not just a way to track time but a way to affirm autonomy. Luminary Geometry is ultimately a reminder that creativity, no matter how small, can challenge control and carve out new spaces of freedom. In its lights, I saw both my cycle and the moon’s cycle, intertwined, eternal, and radiant.Luminary Geometry was born at a critical historical moment. In June 2022, the United States Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, a decision that immediately reverberated across the globe. As a woman and a maker, I found myself grappling with rage and shock, asking: when society attempts to strip away bodily autonomy, how can we respond in our own way? During those weeks, countless voices urged people to delete their period-tracking apps, to avoid sharing cycle data with doctors or even partners, for fear that intimate information might one day be used as incriminating evidence. Something as natural as menstruation—an inherent rhythm of the body—was suddenly reframed as a dangerous secret that had to be hidden. Against this backdrop, I felt compelled to create something new: a tool that would let me track my cycle privately, while also offering comfort and strength through its aesthetics and symbolism. I turned to light, geometry, and circuitry, and gradually, the LED geometric calendar came into being.
The seed of the idea came from a geometry course I had recently completed. It focused on Islamic geometric design, a tradition that has fascinated me with its symmetry, balance, and infinite expansion. Islamic geometry is more than decoration—it is a visual language for expressing cosmic order. Through repeated drawing and analysis, I began to grasp the philosophy embedded within these patterns. Soon, a new thought took hold: could I merge the elegance of geometry with the luminous potential of electronic light? I shared the idea with my collaborator, arturo182. After sifting through numerous motifs, we settled on the ten-pointed star as the central element for our circuit board. This choice was not only aesthetically pleasing but also deeply personal, as I had discovered it in a geometric design book from my late grandfather’s library in India. The star was no longer just a pattern; it was a form of inheritance, a lineage translated into light.
Once simulated in software, the pattern was transformed into circuit design. Using KiCad, arturo182 created a board containing roughly 250 LEDs, arranged in a 6×5 grid. Each grid unit formed a ten-pointed star composed of ten individual diodes. For the board’s physical finish, we chose a purple solder mask, white silkscreen, and gold plating—colors that evoked both modernity and the illumination traditions of Islamic art. Our initial goal was modest: to experiment with the NeoPixel library, craft dazzling light effects, and enjoy the tactile satisfaction of making. But when the board lit up for the first time, I realized it carried much deeper potential.
At first, the flickering animations dazzled the eyes but overwhelmed the quiet dignity of the geometry. They were beautiful but distracting, masking the contemplative quality of the design. I longed for the light to feel gentler, more like a steady breath than a neon spectacle. And so I began searching for balance between illumination and geometry. Around the same time, I was immersing myself in lunar cycles. The phases of the moon—new, waxing, full, waning—have guided human rituals for millennia. They symbolize renewal, growth, decline, and rest, and they are especially linked to women’s cycles and fertility. In the ordered harmony of Islamic geometry, I recognized a resonance with the lunar rhythm.
I began treating each star unit as a tiny moon, using LEDs to illustrate its phase. Ten LEDs formed a circle; when all were lit, it became a full moon. When half were illuminated, it represented first or third quarter. When all were lit but in a deeper hue, it embodied the new moon, the silent beginning. With 30 units, the board could map out an entire lunar month. And since lunar months alternate between 29 and 30 days, the board’s structure aligned neatly with reality.
At first, I used white light to depict the moon, adjusting brightness to show waxing and waning. Yet soon, I felt this was emotionally flat. I experimented with twilight hues—deep purples, muted reds, and dusk-like magentas. Using an RGB color tool, I refined a palette that felt mysterious, poetic, and resonant. Full and half moons were given a dark purple (#190033), new moons a shadowed magenta (#0F000F). They shimmered softly, like distant stars embedded in the geometry.
As the Roe v. Wade news intensified, my project took on new significance. The menstrual cycle and lunar rhythm have always been intertwined; in many ancient cultures, the moon was a metaphor for women’s cycles. If lunar phases represented cosmic order, then menstruation embodied bodily order. I decided to entwine the two, displaying both moon phases and menstrual days on the same board. The moon would stand for nature’s cycles, menstruation for the body’s cycles. Together, they became an implicit defiance of societal control. For menstruation, I chose a deep rose (#330019), a shade that carried dignity without obvious references to blood, a color that felt symbolic and strong. On days marked as period days, several stars glowed with this hue, side by side with lunar phases. These lights no longer represented data to be hidden—they became luminous poetry, solemn yet beautiful.
The programming itself was straightforward. Each star unit contained ten LEDs, indexed in an array. Functions were written to display different lunar phases or period days: show_fullmoon, show_firstquarter, show_thirdquarter, show_newmoon, and period. At the beginning of each month, I manually updated the program with lunar and cycle information. This might seem inconvenient, but it also meant absolute privacy and autonomy. There was no reliance on external servers or applications, no fear of data breaches. The very act of manually updating became intimate, a way to connect with my cycle more consciously.
Gradually, the board transcended its role as a technical experiment and became a symbol of empowerment. It allowed me to visualize my bodily rhythms and to articulate a response to a society demanding silence and erasure. While others sought to conceal, I chose to illuminate—not for public display, but for myself.
When I shared the project, feedback flowed in. Some suggested adding a “breathing light” effect, letting the glow pulse gently like organic rhythms. Others envisioned Bluetooth connectivity for easier cycle updates, or educational applications where students could learn about lunar and bodily cycles in a tactile way. These responses revealed that Luminary Geometry was more than a personal artwork—it had potential as a communal tool, sparking dialogue and imagination.
Artistically, the project revitalized traditional geometry in a digital medium. The lines and stars carried echoes of spiritual thought, while the LEDs lent them contemporary presence. Socially, it addressed urgent debates about bodily autonomy, data privacy, and gender politics. It was not merely a physical object but a stance, a form of resistance. On a personal level, it encouraged me to reflect on the relationship between body and cosmos, cultivating an inner sense of order and balance.
When I sat before the board, watching period days glow alongside lunar phases, I felt a resonance between body and universe. That calm connection reassured me: despite external uncertainties and oppressive forces, natural rhythms—whether cosmic or corporeal—remain intact, untouchable. It was in this realization that I rediscovered the essence of making: not just to construct an object, but to find a voice through creation. Luminary Geometry became a unique expression—art and tool, resistance and healing. It reminded me that while technology can serve surveillance and control, it can also be reclaimed as a medium of freedom and beauty.
This was the answer I found in a time of rage and anxiety: to translate cycles into light, to render geometry into order, to let the body and nature converse through electronic circuitry. In an era bent on restricting women’s choices, such a creation may seem modest, yet for me, it reasserted presence in luminous patterns, steady and unyielding.
By refusing to hide, by choosing instead to illuminate, I discovered not just a way to track time but a way to affirm autonomy. Luminary Geometry is ultimately a reminder that creativity, no matter how small, can challenge control and carve out new spaces of freedom. In its lights, I saw both my cycle and the moon’s cycle, intertwined, eternal, and radiant.