The Moon Dancer and Crater Digger
Pink Floyd sounds as The Moon Dancer lies back in a plastic lawn chair. Her silvery white hair grown wiry with age drapes all around her, flowing behind the chair, following the shape of her breasts, blending in with her skin, the shade of vanilla ice cream.
The Crater Digger reaches over, his arm clothed in inky leather. He grazes his fingers along The Moon Dancer’s wrist, drawing circles between the Moon Dancer’s translucent skin and her cream silk suit. The Moon Dancer smiles at The Crater Digger, a look of tenderness in her eyes. She places dark glasses over her iridescent eyes, the color of sapphire.
Twenty-nine Earth days have passed and the Sun Beam Polisher is once again turned toward the moon. A swift sweep and particles fly across the Milky Way. The Crater Digger’s piano-man fingers move to wrap around those of the Moon Dancer.
He squeezes. She squeezes.
The moon’s surface illuminates at once, glows with the sparkling force of a million diamonds.
The Crater Digger brushes a greasy black lock away from his eyes and gazes with intensity at The Moon Dancer. Her head tilts back to rest on the chair. She has supernatural powers that he does not. On the other twenty-eight Earth days of the lunar cycle the Moon Dancer skips and turns on the cold mineral surface, her hair whirling like octopus tentacles, reaching out to spread the light from the sun. Her movements make the moon go round; its gravitational pull on Earth creates time on the life-filled planet. The Moon Dancer is the Master of Time, the Maiden of the Tides, but she herself exists in a moment of eternity.
On this twenty-nineth day, the combined force of millions of women throughout time give their thanks to the Moon Dancer. The Sun Beam Polisher bathes the Moon Dancer in sunlight, restoring her energy to prepare for the new cycle. The Crater Digger, like the women of Earth, understands the process of cyclical rejuvenation, though nourishing and cleansing, is necessarily painful. On this day, the Crater Digger puts down his shovel and, with coarse hands, holds the Moon Dancer tight, radiating compassion and solace through his palm and into her flesh, as the chants and prayers, dances and mediations of a billion women are transmitted from 384,400 kilometers away.
The smell of sage and calls to the Divine – to her – are among the first to reach the Moon Dancer. Next comes the rush of water. The Moon Dancer drowns, her lungs fill with liquid until a fire is lit from deep inside and she feels a great purge. Her skin tingles with the sensation of a thousand mating butterflies as crystals are drawn in forest floors, on sandy beaches, and in living room carpets. Her stomach bulges with centuries of berries. Her tongue buzzes with the sugar of a thousand rainbows. Her ears reverberate with tones of countless languages –Hindi and Swahili; Chinese and Cherokee; Arabic and Latin; Hebrew and Finnish. At the same time the syllables sounded by the ancient Egyptians, Sumerians, Assyrians and Babylonians touch the Moon Dancer, the modern sounds of French, German and English mix with Japanese, Welsh and Turkish.
The blitzklang, despite the supreme celebration, tormented the Moon Dancer in previous millennia. She thrashed about in fruitless fits attempting to distinguish individual voices, words, messages. But in the fateful Earth Year of 1973, one sound seemed to rise above them all, It was Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. Before that fateful year, she crawled into the deepest of the Crater Digger’s cavities and buried her head in her knees, refusing the Crater Digger’s gentle touch, his soothing kisses. This was her battle and she would fight it alone. She relished in her burns and bruises. But then she heard:
Breathe, breathe in the air.
Don't be afraid to care.
Leave but don't leave me.
Look around and choose your own ground.
Long you live and high you fly
And smiles you'll give and tears you'll cry
And all you touch and all you see
Is all your life will ever be
She learned to love the unity. Now, on each occasion of the Sun Beam Polisher’s sweep, on the evening of each full moon, she embraces the woes and the heartbreak. She feels, deeply, a place of genuine sadness where joy is sowed. From there, it grows into a sincere connection with those she serves – with the sun and the wind, with the oceans and the forests, with the women and men on planet Earth. She, the Mother, is one. She's one with herself, one with the Sun Beam Polisher, one with the Crater Digger, and one with us, the women of Earth.
So she reclines, she enjoys, she is awash with the sounds, the smells, the sensations, and voices of a billion celebrations. And tomorrow, on the first day of the new cycle, she’ll awake next to the Crater Digger and feel, not spent, but full – full of love, full of joy, full of vigor. She’ll place a purposeful kiss on the Crater Digger’s forehead and turn in thanks toward the women of planet Earth before beginning again, her passionate dance.