Cliff and I attended a Howl at the Moon Party last week on Bald Head Island.
Red pepper crab soup; appetizers and cookies; beer; a bagpiper; and sparking conversation with Margot and John, a couple we met at the party, made it a night worth howling about (happy howling, that is).
Then it hit me. I’d never ever seen a moonrise. How’s that for saving some new experiences for your menopausal years?
When I was a little girl, I was terrified of the moon. “No moon! No moon!” I’d shout. My parents had to close the curtains in my bedroom so not a speck of moon peeked through.
Look at me now! Partying in the moonlight!
We have touchstones in life. The moon is for me, as I suspect it may be for you, one of them. It’s a quirky ball that lives above our heads, and even on a cloudy night or if it only shows a sliver, it’s there. And when the moon laughs in bright orange or displays cheddar cheese patterns or puts on a show over the ocean, we’re delighted to be among its admiring earthlings.
The ancients believed the moon mirrors the life of a woman: maiden, mother, and crone, the moon in its new, full, and fading forms.
But when I stood on the beach and howled with the others, I didn’t feel like a crone at all.