Things that tell you where home is
Wherever memory sticks. That house window. That tree out front.
The red-necked stint, light as an aerogram, flies the Pacific from top to bottom and back again, and always believes it will find home.
The easiness of strangers who ask, What do you know?
The noise of a bus changing gear two streets away where the road begins to climb all the way back to a moment in childhood.
The high winds that make everything windblown (paper and leaves) seem personal.
The ancient sea chart that looks like a string shipping bag containing lines to do with currents and prevailing winds.
The smell of rotten fruit.
The smell of fresh mown grass and lawnmower oil.
The holy quiet of a man who has lived for seventy-five years on the one island and has nothing left to say.
The history of the world
Step one. You need a lot of water - from above and below. The water of heaven fills the lakes and rivers. Now add equal amounts of darkness and daylight. While there is light the sun draws the water back up to restock heaven.
Step two. Man is created out of dust. At the end of his life he returns to dust. Restocking again.
Step three. The most important ingredient of all. Take a rib bone and create a woman to keep the man company, righteous and fed. Add a spoonful of sugar for pleasure and bitter herbs for tears. There will be plenty of both, and the rest just follows on from there.
The history of memory
I miss island laughter. White people don't laugh in the same way. They laugh in a private, sniggering way. I have tried to teach your father to laugh properly and he is learning. But he does not practise enough.
I miss the warm sea. Every day us kids used to jump off the wharf. But never on Sundays. You know why.
I miss the colour blue, and fruit bats at dusk.
I miss hearing the thud of a coconut falling.
Broken dreams
The girl next to where I grew up used to sleepwalk. It was amazing how far she would get - still fast asleep. One time she paddled a canoe out to the reef, came in and went back to her sleeping mat. Or else you'd see her marching up the beach like she was late for church.
Once we found her in out house sitting up to the table, her eyes closed, while every other part of her suggested she was waiting to be brought a cold drink. I was going to wake her but my mum stopped me. What if she is dreaming...? Dreams are private, she said. And she is right. A dream is a story that no one else will get to hear or read.
Thnks to dreams, in the history of the galaxy the world has been reinvented more often than there are stars.
The girl in our house though was probably just dreaming about jumping off the wharf - and that's okay too.
How to find your soul
If you tell your mother a lie you may do nothing more than blush, grow a bit hot under your skin. But later, at two in the morning, sitting in that dumb car you will begin to feel deceitful.
All that feeling has to go somewhere and it does. It has been stored in a vault deep in your body. Don't ask a doctor to find it. Like your father they are next to useless on these matters.
You need to know about hell. Don't ask your father. His geography is limited. Hell is less important to him than London or Paris. All you do is eat and shit and take photos in those places. Heaven and hell are the cities of the soul! That's where you grow!
Your shoelaces
Your shoelaces are useless on their own. They need a shoe before they can work. A human being without God is just flesh and blood. A house without God is an empty house waiting for the devil to move in. You need to understand boundaries.
Boundaries
Braids remind us that sometimes it is hard to know where goodness ends and badness begins.
Wherever memory sticks. That house window. That tree out front.
The red-necked stint, light as an aerogram, flies the Pacific from top to bottom and back again, and always believes it will find home.
The easiness of strangers who ask, What do you know?
The noise of a bus changing gear two streets away where the road begins to climb all the way back to a moment in childhood.
The high winds that make everything windblown (paper and leaves) seem personal.
The ancient sea chart that looks like a string shipping bag containing lines to do with currents and prevailing winds.
The smell of rotten fruit.
The smell of fresh mown grass and lawnmower oil.
The holy quiet of a man who has lived for seventy-five years on the one island and has nothing left to say.
The history of the world
Step one. You need a lot of water - from above and below. The water of heaven fills the lakes and rivers. Now add equal amounts of darkness and daylight. While there is light the sun draws the water back up to restock heaven.
Step two. Man is created out of dust. At the end of his life he returns to dust. Restocking again.
Step three. The most important ingredient of all. Take a rib bone and create a woman to keep the man company, righteous and fed. Add a spoonful of sugar for pleasure and bitter herbs for tears. There will be plenty of both, and the rest just follows on from there.
The history of memory
I miss island laughter. White people don't laugh in the same way. They laugh in a private, sniggering way. I have tried to teach your father to laugh properly and he is learning. But he does not practise enough.
I miss the warm sea. Every day us kids used to jump off the wharf. But never on Sundays. You know why.
I miss the colour blue, and fruit bats at dusk.
I miss hearing the thud of a coconut falling.
Broken dreams
The girl next to where I grew up used to sleepwalk. It was amazing how far she would get - still fast asleep. One time she paddled a canoe out to the reef, came in and went back to her sleeping mat. Or else you'd see her marching up the beach like she was late for church.
Once we found her in out house sitting up to the table, her eyes closed, while every other part of her suggested she was waiting to be brought a cold drink. I was going to wake her but my mum stopped me. What if she is dreaming...? Dreams are private, she said. And she is right. A dream is a story that no one else will get to hear or read.
Thnks to dreams, in the history of the galaxy the world has been reinvented more often than there are stars.
The girl in our house though was probably just dreaming about jumping off the wharf - and that's okay too.
How to find your soul
If you tell your mother a lie you may do nothing more than blush, grow a bit hot under your skin. But later, at two in the morning, sitting in that dumb car you will begin to feel deceitful.
All that feeling has to go somewhere and it does. It has been stored in a vault deep in your body. Don't ask a doctor to find it. Like your father they are next to useless on these matters.
You need to know about hell. Don't ask your father. His geography is limited. Hell is less important to him than London or Paris. All you do is eat and shit and take photos in those places. Heaven and hell are the cities of the soul! That's where you grow!
Your shoelaces
Your shoelaces are useless on their own. They need a shoe before they can work. A human being without God is just flesh and blood. A house without God is an empty house waiting for the devil to move in. You need to understand boundaries.
Boundaries
Braids remind us that sometimes it is hard to know where goodness ends and badness begins.
From Mr Pip, by Lloyd Jones
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