How the moon got its phases

Once, in a far away land, in a village at the foot of a mountain, lived a young woman named Ana. Her hair was long, her skin permanently tanned by the sun, she was neither poor nor rich. She was gentle and thoughtful, but not unselfish. Her beauty was unrivalled. When she was a child she had been very popular, but as time went on her friends had turned away. Women feared her, for their husbands would surely stray, men wouldn’t come near, for surely they couldn’t offer anything to please her. At first Ana hadn’t minded her solitude. Adored by parents and grandparents her life was filled with happiness. But in recent years the people who had loved her had passed away and loneliness enveloped her. The vanishing love had left a void in her heart, deep as an ocean trench. Ana’s longing for love and a husband turned into despair.

One night Ana climbed the mountain. Kneeling she turned her face up to the moon. “Curse this face, curse this body. All I want is a husband, someone who can see past my beauty and love me, just love me. Please send me a husband”. She begged the moon over and over until all she could do was weep, her exquisite head cradled in her perfect arms. She didn’t see the stars falling out of the sky trying to console her. At dawn a soft breeze picked up, the leaves on the tree rustling, as if a whisper. Ana looked up at the moon and saw it smile kindly at her: “You’ll have your brown-skin man” spoke the full moon from the sky, “but in return I want the first child that you have with him”. “Moon, you want to be a mother?” Ana cried in disbelief, “Tell me Moon of silver, what do you intend to do with a child of flesh?” As a veil, a cloud obscured the moon, understanding dawned. With no other moon around, the moon’s despair must equal hers. The sacrifice was small; Ana agreed.

A few days later a cinnamon-skinned man arrived in the village. It didn’t take long before he set eyes on Ana - that hair could rival the beauty of a dark lake rippling in the shimmering sun. Nor did it take much time before he went down on one knee – spellbound and scared to lose her to another man. Ana, loving his impulsiveness, agreed. The wedding was glorious and the newlyweds radiated with love. When Ana fell pregnant her resplendence lit up the shades. Of course she thought about her promise and then fast as lightning pushed those thoughts away. The day arrived when Ana gave birth, at dusk he was born. She didn’t have to look at him to know that his skin was white like an ermine's belly, his eyes gray instead of olive - Moon's albino son. “Maldita su estampa!” Ana’s husband shouted, outraged. “This is not my son! You won’t get away with this!” Believing himself dishonoured he went to his wife, knife in hand, voice trembling "Whose son is this? I am sure you have deceived me!" Ana pleaded her innocence, an unlikely story hard to believe. She begged her husband not to hurt the child. The tears welling up behind her large eyes, made her more beautiful than eve, but her husband couldn’t see it. Blind with envy and unwilling to listen, Ana’s love stabbed her to death. Then he climbed the mountain with the child in his arms and abandoned it there, under a full moon. He didn’t turn around to see it covered in stars. He didn’t turn around to see it glide up in a beam of moonlight to his mother’s outstretched arms.

These days the people in the town at the foot of the mountain have long forgotten about Ana. But legend has it, that on nights when the moon is full it's because her child is happy and when the child cries, the moon will wane to make him a cradle.

Mecano – Hijo de la luna

Songwriter: José María Cano

Sorry

“I wish you just stayed away from us, you’ve ruined everything. I hate you!” She flinched, could he hear her heart breaking, her hopes plummeting, crashing beneath her feet?

“Don’t talk to my mum like that” Well at least someone here loved her. She took a deep breath.

“Leave it” she said calmly to her daughter, who sat down next to her on the sofa. “I can understand their anger. Your dad died, and however much we wish he could, he can’t come back. We’ve accepted that. It’s different for them”. Nodding towards the boys she carried on. “Their parents are divorced. They love their mum and they want nothing more than her coming back. They can still hope and I’ve squashed that hope when I started dating their dad”. She looked the eldest boy straight in the eyes. “I’m very sorry your parents couldn’t work things out. I wish they had been able to. I also wish my husband hadn’t died”. The boys looked down, a silent tear rolled down her cheek. “I am, however very grateful for meeting your dad. I’m forty-four years old, probably only just half way...” she swallowed hard “and I have every right to be happy for another forty-four years to come. Your dad makes me happy, he makes my daughter happy. I hope you can eventually accept that”. The boys looked up, was she imagining it or did they look embarrassed?

“I miss daddy” her daughter wrapped her arms around her; she kissed her on the head. “So do I darling, so do I”.  

The youngest boy asked “What was your dad like” Was it a start? The oldest boy turned round and left the room. She stood up, decided against following him and walked outside into the garden. She needed some air. She wandered round, looking but not really seeing anything. What did she have to do to make those boys love her or at least care for her, she could settle for that.  No more reproaches, no more hurt, no more mess.  She knew lightning didn’t strike twice. She had found love once, twenty years ago and had it been simple. Now, unexpectedly she had found it again but it was so complicated. There were children involved, one very precious girl who had been through enough turmoil and the two boys. She had known them vaguely, the youngest was in her daughter’s class, and they had always been kind. She had not expected any problems with them. At first there had been a forced politeness, indifference followed and now... hate.  John thought the world of his sons. She had to take his word for it. It was such a sad situation. She was scared. What if John couldn’t take it anymore? What if one day she woke up to find him not there.

She sat down on the swing under the oak tree. The big trunk of the tree told her it had stood there for at least a hundred years. Solid and firm, like John’s love, it would always be there. She needed to make this work, for him. What did she have to do to make those boys want her around? What did she have to say to be heard? Her thoughts went round in circles. She didn’t want to admit it, but something had to give. Ben hated her. This was getting more and more absurd. Her life was in pieces, she didn’t need to drag other people into the ruins. She could make things easy for John. He would no longer have to defend her to his kids and them to her. End it all. Big question was how? Pretend it was all over? She couldn’t. One kiss and she’d melt, give in. What would she say? Sorry? It seemed harsh.

Upstairs, from his bedroom window, Ben watched the intruder in the garden. He had been surprised she had not shouted at him. His parents used to shout at each other all the time. Was it better now? He missed Mum so much. She had moved out nearly eight months ago and lived in a very small flat twenty minutes from here. He saw her twice a week and she seemed happier, more relaxed than when she had lived at home.  Dad was happier too, especially since he had met Nora. She was probably going to dump Dad now. He had said the most awful thing he’d ever said to anyone and he had not even meant it. He had heard every word she had said. She had understood his feelings, better than he had himself. She had even been kind to him. Why? He had been horrible. He knew he had to apologize to her, talk things over before it was too late. He wanted Dad to be happy and if Nora made him happy... it was only one word, but it seemed to be the hardest word to say.

Elton John – Sorry seems to be the hardest word

Songwriters: Elton John, Bernie Taupin

A Mysterious Tour

Picture this... an average size town, not far from London. We're outside a train station. The weather is nice, the station’s not too busy. Zoom in on a group of people waiting at the stop for a bus. There’s a very cool young guy on his way home, wearing a new pair of Levi’s and a red The Killers t-shirt. On his left some American tourists, on his right an elderly couple. The guy’s me, obviously and it was the American family who caught my attention. Not because of their dress sense – they were wearing the standard American holiday attire: beige knee-length bermuda's, a light blue baggy shirt (the kids had white ones with ‘Lakers’ printed in big letters), white trainers and white socks. Nor was my attention caught by the likeness of the parents – creepy, though she didn’t say a word during the entire journey. The dad was loud and carried some guidebook, talking to his kids about this place they were trying to get to. I didn’t hear where they were going. I became interested in the conversation when I heard him describe it. He was saying something about an exhibition of photographs of every head a barber had had the pleasure of knowing. “It says here, and I quote: ‘All the people come and go and stop to say hello.’ So it must be a good place to visit. You might even see some celebrities,” the American said. It got his kids’ attention. As you know I like photography and I was intrigued. I hadn’t seen anything about an exhibition of some sort in the area plus the only two celebrities around here are John Tickle and Ali G, and the last one isn’t even real. I decided to follow them.

They got on the 117 and three minutes later got off again. They either didn’t know Staines at all or they were very lazy. We could have walked here! It didn‘t appear to be their destination because, once again, we were waiting at the bus stop. Five minutes later the 458 to Kingston came into view. That’s better, I thought, Kingston’s a nice place and there are plenty of things to do there. The bus was nearly empty, so I sat two rows away from the Americans. Not too near to be noticed and not too far for me to listen in on their conversation. As soon as they sat down the kids started asking about Penny. Whoever? I rummaged in by bag to look for a book. A book would be an excellent undercover accessory. I also plugged my earphones in, so I really looked the part. Mister undercover! Clearly I’m not the best spy in the world because I got distracted and (again) missed hearing about our destination. However, I did pick up that there was supposed to be a banker with a motorcar on the corner who was very funny because children laughed at him. To top it off, he never wore a mac in the pouring rain. Hm, strange, I though, very strange, or maybe it was installation art.

To my disappointment they got off about twenty minutes later near the Marshalls roundabout. Surely the exhibition couldn’t be around here. Maybe they were hungry and had decided to go to the pub? But if they didn’t even know about walking from the train station to the bus station, it seemed unlikely they would know their way to the pub. The tourists weren’t the only ones to get off and for a moment their voices were out of hearing. When I caught up with them they were walking towards the roundabout and seemed to be looking around for something. I heard them talking about a shelter and a nurse selling poppies. Well, at least it sounded like that. I couldn’t linger on the roundabout. That would be way too obvious and besides my enthusiasm for this art thing had somewhat diminished. Let’s be honest, there’s nothing on this roundabout, except for some trees. There are houses on the left, a field on the right and there’s the Marina behind us. I turned around and decided to walk back to the bus stop before I made a complete fool of myself. However, it wasn’t long before I realised the Americans must have followed me, their voices growing louder by the minute and sounding rather agitated. Curiosity roused once more, I put Mister Undercover back into action: I stopped, kneeled down and pretended to do up my shoelaces. Smooth. When they were at a reasonable distance I started my pursuit.

I didn’t want to walk too closely behind them, so it was really difficult to hear what they were talking about. I caught snippets of their conversation. Something about firemen and hourglasses; the Queen and clean fire engines. It didn’t make sense. We seemed to be going towards the Marina and I was really puzzled. I’ve been to the Marina often but never seen any art centres.

From an open window I could hear someone playing the trumpet, I knew the song. At the same time my eyes fell upon the road sign. I started to laugh, one of the American kids turned round to look at me. There I was, Penny Lane, in my ears and in my eyes. All those things the American had been talking about were from that Beatles song. Only they weren’t singing about this little lane. The Americans were in completely the wrong town. Fantastic!

Two things crossed my mind. Would there really be a banker waiting for a trim at the barber’s in Penny Lane and, should I tell them?

The Beatles - Penny Lane

Songwriters Paul Mccartney, John Lennon

Perfect Day

Tweet: BeaMuld Woke up to the sound of singing birds and the sight of a rainbow – perfect!

After a quick shower Bea put on some shorts and a new top. A warm sunny day was forecast and Bea was going to enjoy every minute of it. She opened the fridge, took out the milk and poured some in a steaming mug of coffee. The smell tickled her taste buds. Putting the milk back she eyed the eggs. Bacon? No, she fancied something sweet, something summery. It certainly looked like it was going to be a warm dry day, hopefully chasing the dark rain clouds away for a long time to come. She didn’t want to think about the clouds, she wanted French toast.  With a smile on her face Bea took the milk back out of the fridge and poured some into a bowl. She added an egg, cinnamon and vanilla. The buzzing of a bee made her look up from whisking and out through the open window. Strawberries! Bea opened the large French doors and stepped into her small garden. A cool breeze caressed her skin and the smell of fresh mint greeted her. Picking the strawberries Bea started to sing an old song her mum used to play over and over whenever she was happy. She would lift Bea up in her arms, dance with her, twirling around or just sway, looking radiantly at her and planting soft kisses on her nose. Bea loved those memories and planned to send her mum some flowers with the lyrics from the song. That would certainly put a smile on her face. Bea had just finished her French toast with strawberries and honey when her phone beeped. A text from Elly: want 2 go 2 the lake? Meet @ the cafe bring picnic.

With nothing much to do until meeting Elly, Bea packed her swimsuit, grabbed a towel, put a change of clothes into a bag and went for a walk through town. Looking up at the sky she noticed the sun had broken through the clouds.  Taking her mobile out she tweeted: never seen a sky so blue!, then leisurely walked into a shop. Half an hour later she left it wearing a pair of new sunglasses and clutching a blue handbag. She’d been looking for a bigger one for weeks and her mood was positively brimming. A Cajun man with a red guitar was singing on the side of the street. He flashed her a toothpaste grin and started playing a country beat. Bea laughed, it was the song she’d been humming earlier this morning. She threw a handful of change in his beat up case and with a skip in her step made her way to the café.

Elly was sitting at a small table outside. Bea kissed her on the cheek and ordered a glass of white wine. While Elly was filling her in on who else was coming to the lake, Bea scanned the menu. Everything looked good. After sharing a pizza and salad they met up with some friends outside of town. More laughter and air kissing followed before Bea hopped into the back of a jacked up jeep and felt the wind upon her face. A warm voice called out for the jeep to wait. Bea turned her head round and saw the most gorgeous man, a guitar slung over his shoulder, running up to the jeep. Years later she would remember her thoughts at that exact moment: ‘I like you.’ Turning to Elly and with a nod of her head she mouthed: ‘who?’ Elly leant closer and whispered in her ear. ‘His name’s Ant and he’s single’, then smiled meaningfully before leaping up to make a space available. Ant sat down next to Bea and with loud cheers the jeep drove off. Bea couldn’t help but laugh. She’d get her own back at Elly in time, but now she was going to enjoy the feel of his body against hers. They got to the spot and the sun was hot, everybody was feeling fine. They got changed quickly and jumped in the lake for a midday swim, losing all track of time.

As the moon came out, a barbecue had seemed to appear by magic. A fire burned and Ant was playing his guitar. Everybody was singing along to some Ramblin' Man, a little Curtis Lowe and all those feel good songs.  Bea sat back, burying her toes in the sand, enjoying the sight of Ant, when their eyes met. Her heart skipped a beat and grabbing Elly’s hand she stood up to dance. It wasn’t long before the others joined in. They danced all night without a care, no place they'd rather be. Elly said: ‘You know what Bea, when we’re old these are the days we'll talk about, when we lived so wild and free’. Bea gave her friend a hug and felt the happiness inside and out.

Later, the music had stopped, most of her friends had gone back in the lake for a midnight swim. Bea watched them, her knees pulled up and her arms wrapped around them. Someone put a blanket over her shoulders. She looked up and saw Ant. ‘I thought you looked a bit cold’ That warm voice again, it made her shiver, but in a nice way. They talked, a little chit chat and looked at each other, smiling, coy. Bea was sure she’d have aching cheeks tomorrow. They were sitting in the sand as he grabbed her hand and then leaned in for a kiss. With the stars above, Bea couldn't help but think it doesn't get much better than this.

Tweet: BeaMuld It was the perfect day. What I'd give if I could find a way to stay. Lost in this moment now
Ain't worried about tomorrow, when you're busy livin, feels like dreamin', slowly drifting, through this perfect day @ BeaMuld

Perfect Day – Lady Antebellum.

Songwriters: Jerry Flowers, David Haywood, Charles Kelley, Darrell Scott