What a difference a day makes. Yesterday, we did spend the day at the beach and my schedule was followed to the T. The only deviation: I didn’t read a word. I was only capable of sitting quietly and staring out towards the ocean, taking careful mental notes of the very few people who walked by our almost deserted beach. We were starring in our Corona commercial only without the beer. Once I was settled in my chair facing the predictable and beautiful azure sea did I realize how very tired I was. Tired in my body, mind, and my soul. Sleep enveloped me and carried me away into complete unconsciousness. After my first nap–which either lasted a lifetime or a few minutes–I understood what Marquez was explaining in One Hundred Years Of Solitude. The heat off the jungle and the breeze from the sea mix together in a heady tincture of rest and silence.
Last night, the clouds were low to the horizon so the giant moon wasn’t visible until almost ten o’clock. The beach was deserted (at least it sounded deserted; music and voices from parties on the beach will waft up to our balcony) and because we really are mindful to safety we didn’t walk the beach in the moonlight. I braved the hungry mosquitoes and had my own private full moon party on the upper most deck of the casitas where the world was illuminated in a blue silver light and the world is a living silver gel print photograph. It was unspeakably close on the street and outside our little casita but it’s always a little breezier and removed from cloying damp up the twirly staircase and on the roof.
The moon at mid sky colored the sea a shiny gray which everything in sight suddenly possess an element of otherworldliness. I wondered if this quality exists solely in my imagination or if I am informed by the archetype of Luna and her mythology.
Years ago, I remember sitting outside on the Playa del Carmen beach, watching the moon rise over the Eastern horizon. It wasn’t quite full but it was a big autumnal moon. The clouds on the horizon served to mask part of the moon and at one point it appeared to be a large reptilian yellow eye winking at us. I wondered what ancient indigenous people would have made of this. Would the shaman tell the new story of a lizard Goddess living at the edge of the sea? Would she be protector or would she be a menace to night fisherman? The pragmatist in me predicted the outcome of the story largely depended on the number of fish the shaman was presented the next morning. After all, mythological tales are usually created by one group of people to control the weaker in their own group or other groups of people. But despite my pragmatism, I had to admit the vision of the giant blinking eye on the horizon was a bit daunting and a little scary. I was thankful I lived in a time when the only Lunar mythology foisted on me was a children’s rhyme.
“I see the moon and the moon sees me”