Full moon memories
Recollections from listening to the next song in the Songbook
I remember when Robbie wrote this. I confess at the time I didn’t really “get it” but, at the time, I was waist deep in small children (mine and those in the neighborhood) and very much anchored in the present with little time to contemplate the universe.
That’s often what a growing family needs—one person to see the big picture and have deep thoughts, and another who’s minding the small details (like getting bills done on time and getting the kids to their doctor and dentist appointments) and keeping the mind on the path of making it from breakfast to bedtime. We switched those roles often, especially when I went back to work full-time. We still do.
The one verse in this song that I connect with best is the one about the Mayan village. We had gone to Cancún for our 15th anniversary. It was the first time I dared to leave the children for a whole week. Believe me, planning to spend the money on a vacation that involved going to another country when any one of your offspring could suddenly get sick and derail the whole plan was a daunting thought. And then there was the childcare issue.
The day trip to Chichen Itza was gloriously hot and sunny, the roads sometimes bumpy but the scenery strange and tropical—at least that was my recollection. The Mayan temple was impressive and I had no problem going up to the top. But I have no head for heights and came down on my bottom, sitting on each step all the way down, much to the amusement of our fellow passengers. The photos that Robbie took of me ruining my lovely white capris in my descent cannot now be found—I wonder why.
It was on our way back to Cancún that we had an unplanned magical experience. The bus had a flat tire out in the middle of the nowhere. But, of course, nowhere for some is somewhere for others. Nightfall is sudden in that part of the world. Our vehicle limped into a little village of what looked like a collection of huts and one main building in the middle with a single bare light bulb over a pool table. It was really the village shop/post office. It had a Coke machine and sold various staples. Beyond that everything was dark, lit only by the cooking fires in the huts where babies were sleeping in hammocks and mothers were stirring the pot. Above us the sky was crammed with stars—more stars than I had ever seen before. The scent of night flowers drifted over us as we walked slowly arm in arm, aware that we were in the midst of something profoundly different from anything we had ever experienced. We were suspended between the huddled home fires and the stars, every fibre of our being drinking it all in.
The modern world returned as the flat tire was fixed, the passengers re-embarked, and we made our way back to the city. I have no idea how they managed to have the right tire for a bus out there, but strange things exist in these existential liminal spaces.
We’ve just had the Harvest/Hunter’s Moon, so it’s fitting that this song is the next in the Robbie O’Connell Songbook. I love how this project is giving us a chance to revisit our life together. I hope you enjoy it too. I promise that I’ll write another post soon that will be about recent “stitches” and stories.
Wonderful story of A Story! Thanks for letting us walk with you, Rox.