The woman speaks:
When we left we took with us the Book. The Big Book, The Book of Books, they call it. Of course when we were living in the garden it didn’t mean anything to us. It was only after, on the way out, that we realized it might be important. That it was put there for us, that it was a gift not to help us in the old place but now, when we’re in exile.
When we opened it, it was blank. Unfortunately. We couldn’t see anything in the pages at all. Still, we would open it and study it as often as we could. Eventually we could see little pictures on the pages. It’s possible that we drew them though. Or maybe they were already there and we just drew what was already there. Eventually, the pictures were like those puzzles that they have on bubble gum cards. Little riddles for us to figure out, but once we figured them out they didn’t make any sense. It was like an endless game of Treasure Hunt: every riddle was a clue and every clue led us to another clue. Every time we gave up, every time we felt like throwing the book against the wall, whenever we turned our back on it, that’s when we were most ready to begin again.
Sometimes we liked it best when we didn’t read it at all but just left it sitting on the shelf. Sometimes that was all we needed it for.
When we left we took with us the Book. The Big Book, The Book of Books, they call it. Of course when we were living in the garden it didn’t mean anything to us. It was only after, on the way out, that we realized it might be important. That it was put there for us, that it was a gift not to help us in the old place but now, when we’re in exile.
When we opened it, it was blank. Unfortunately. We couldn’t see anything in the pages at all. Still, we would open it and study it as often as we could. Eventually we could see little pictures on the pages. It’s possible that we drew them though. Or maybe they were already there and we just drew what was already there. Eventually, the pictures were like those puzzles that they have on bubble gum cards. Little riddles for us to figure out, but once we figured them out they didn’t make any sense. It was like an endless game of Treasure Hunt: every riddle was a clue and every clue led us to another clue. Every time we gave up, every time we felt like throwing the book against the wall, whenever we turned our back on it, that’s when we were most ready to begin again.
Sometimes we liked it best when we didn’t read it at all but just left it sitting on the shelf. Sometimes that was all we needed it for.
Song: Advent Calendar
Each day has a secret
If you know how to find it
Each secret opens up a door
With a gift behind it
Each gift’s like a mouth
Each mouth has its own word
And every word a saint
And every saint a bird
Every day is like a new book
Open it up slowly!
Each book is a story in stained glass
All lit up and holy
Each day has a secret room
Where all things belong
Cathedral, atlas, Noah’s ark
Museum, city, song.
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