And so it was, from the fullness within time, that they gathered for tea. Bored, their thoughts wandered and mingled. However could they dispel this ennui? Somehow—and no one can remember who suggested it—the notion just suddenly appeared and hung in the air, like a fluffy cloud, Collaborate on a project.
Such a choice was infrequent and fraught with difficulties. Only one in several millions of births would be blessed in this way, to their reckoning. Generally, a child was stewarded by one, only, of these luminaries.
While pouring out second cups, their mother remarked, Don’t overdo it, Dears, remembering some previous lamentable miscalculations and failures, No one can have it all and survive the experience. Moderation, as one might say, in all things.
This gave them pause, and as if to have give themselves a bit more time to consider, they each selected either a sandwich or a biscuit to munch.
The unspoken thought mingled in the air that they each should hold back or modify an aspect of their gift. Mother was right, of course. First of all, creation too perfect was liable to be despised. They didn’t want that.
There was something about this little soul, you see, that had caught their fancy. There was a rosiness about it, one that pulsed and bloomed in various ways. It would be interesting to see what this little one would do.
The family into which this soul would be delivered eagerly awaited the arrival, and this did not escape notice. They knew the child would be nurtured and taught and fed by more than mortal food—if they had anything to do with it; and indeed, they would.
Soon, tea was over. Their mother withdrew into afternoon dreaming and remembrances.
It was time to get to work.
***
Before long, this little one had been earmarked, inner-eye-marked, heart-formed and faceted like a precious gem. Artemis and Athena passed through, looking for something or other, liked what they saw happening, and made their own contributions: an inquisitive mind; an abiding love of the outdoors.
Dancing, perhaps not, thought Terpsichore. Calliope insisted on egalitarianism. Her sisters insisted that words and meanings were essential. Thalia, loath as she was to do so, tempered math to the point of confusion, but made up for that with a sort of overriding global conceptual understanding. Clio wanted this little one to witness and report the history of the times, and had already asked her mother to bolster that facet.
Vision was difficult to prepare in advance. As best they could, they allowed distant real-time sight, with the innovation of a mild topographical understanding, and good night vision. To moderate this, near vision was made generally good, but with a slight perceptual flaw that would tangle things and occasionally report them inverted or bunched together.
And so it was that this little soul was molded and formed, teased and tickled, cuddled and coddled in preparation for the mortal plane. At the last, she was blown from the halls of Memory into the little body already growing in her mother’s womb. Her earthly parents had already been talking and singing to her, so she was drawn to their voices. She felt warm and welcome.
***
And so, in the fullness of time, the child was born. Athena was pleased to note that she had a full head of thick red waves, and Artemis found her own hawk eyes looking back at her, though small and unfocused, as yet.
Crawling along, as a babe, slow she was to rise to bipedal status—there was so much to explore at the ground level. Sticks, rocks and dirt were first toys; elemental and of endless possibility. Rolling down a grassy knoll, grasping fingers could feel the vitality of green rising from the very roots of the grass. To her, grass was like hair. Once on her feet, skipping along, she would stop and dawdle, looking around. As she dawdled, she’d spot shiny pebbles, seeds, pods or shells. She examined the bark of trees, and traced the different shapes of leaves. She listened to the birdsongs. At sleep time, she’d hum her own tunes to her cat, who’d come to nest with her.
Her parents taught her about gardening, introduced her to music, dance and art. She learned about the changing seasons and the stars of the night sky.
One day, while standing with her father on a wide and busy boulevard crossing, waiting for the light to change, she was astonished at the amazing speed of everything, the blur of rushing and racing people and cars, the recklessness of it all. Is it like this all the time?she wondered to herself, thinking, I’m not sure I belong here.
And then it was time to start school. Shy, pale and crowned with blazing red hair, she was an object of curiosity, a magnet for unwanted attention. Socialization was difficult; schoolyard bullies and thieves provided lessons in trustworthiness. Nearly kidnapped one day, walking home partly on her own, to meet her mother at the usual corner, taught her to be wary. Outbreaks of violence and destruction, both near and far, opened her young eyes to the fact that life was a somber matter. At six, she was shy and quiet, serious, observant.
Slowness suited her, and this was a challenge to learning. She was slow to come to reading. Part of it could be put down to daydreaming. Aromatic blooming things made her unable to focus, blurring her vision. Open windows sent in tantalizing, earthy scents and snatches of birdsong. She liked sitting at the back of the classroom, so she could let her mind wander.
One day, the teacher realized that while the rest of the class was looking at the symbols chalked on the board with understanding, this child was not. A conference with mom took place. A life change was already in progress, but this meeting was a turning point.
For when this child looked at the squiggles in the board, their purpose and meaning were incomprehensible to her, and when she tried to replicate them with a pencil on her notebook, many of them would be drawn backwards. When words or strands of words were attempted, they would end up out of order.
Mom took matters in hand. She sat everyday, for short interval after school, for as many days as it took, and nurtured her child to the letter and the book. When you can read, the universe is the greatest book you can open. This sentiment was pleasing to the extra-dimensional observers.
And so it was, indeed. Upon finally mastering the fundamentals, her inborn ability to remember things that interested her helped to synthesize ideas and make small footings and bridges of learning in her mind. The library soon became a favorite place to visit. Gatherings of words and symbols had eventual become as comforting as the gathering of pretty shells and stones, as exercising as long explorative walks, and speculative gazings into the night sky.
Numbers, however, never became friends. Vexed by some oddity of the way she perceived them, questionable teaching methods and shifting-like-sands curricula, numbers and formulae would jump and jumble, or worse, run across the page, pooling like the tears of Lethe, only to roll off the page and accumulate in puddles of confusion on the floor. Many sad and evenings of struggle with homework were followed by scary number dreams and school day number anxieties, especially on test days.
Nevertheless, there was a growing accumulation of knowing, leading to more interest and engagement. The growing girl held firmly to the ribbon on the end of the kite of knowledge, which was rewarded, from time to time, with a small lightning bolt of understanding. Whatever else, she was not afraid to open the Book of the Universe, even if she could not master everything within. It was understood that complete mastery was not possible; knowledge is a river that flows to the edge of time and plunges, like a waterfall, into the canyons of the unknown.
***
And so the parents had her tutored in the bowing of the strings. There was a modicum of talent. The girl’s ears were well tuned. Afternoon practice would find all the house pets piled on the bed in her room, wrapped in soothed sleep, while she fingered the board and bowed the strings, sending pleasing musical vibrations out the open upper window into the neighborhood.
The heavenly observers often wondered what primary gift might surface. Once, Urania saw people approach her; it turned out they needed directions. Why ask this particular young lady?Why not ask another adult? She frowned to herself, but as she saw the scene play out, the girl gave clear instructions, and the couple arrived at their intended destination. Such scenes happened again and again.
The child was a magnet, of sorts; people with questions would come to her, and she did her best to answer them, although this was sometimes a frustrating irritant to her. Urania thought that it had to do with her clear and competent gaze, the clarity and tone of her voice.
As a test, Urania guided a number of random puzzled people to her at a large public event. The girl without fail answered what questions she could, honestly reporting when she didn’t know, and referring some people to a person or area where they might find the information they sought. Hmmm, Urania thought to herself, the girl is completely aware of her surroundings; somehow people know this.
As they deepened their gaze on this aspect, they noticed that animals readily came to her, small children shared with her their secrets, and adults would confide in her.
Meanwhile, Clio was happy to observe the enduring spark of interest in history, indeed all kinds of literature.
Euterpe laughed when she took up a jug, one day, and experimented with blowing a tune on it. She might not be fit for dancing, Terpsichore observed, but she does enjoy making music.
***
And so daydreaming continued, during walks to and from school, to and from the library, during bike rides to and from the park or exploring unknown streets. She had a few friends, but most kids at school put her apart from their larger social circles. Many lunch breaks were spent in the school library, doing homework. Others spent time there, too, and the heavenly observers laughed when she formed a chess club that would meet weekly in the library. It wasn’t that she played well; she wanted to learnthe game.
What a clever one; she’s the only girl in the club!
In such group settings, any awkwardness she might have felt she covered with quick situational wit. Decades later, at a class reunion, people she’d hardly known would remark, You always said funny things; you made us laugh. She barely remembered any of that; she mainly remembered that certain people had always been mean while others had always been nice. Thalia murmured to herself, Laughter is a great equalizer. Her sister Melpomene said, Laughter covers pain.
But daydreams continued to surround her like a cloak, in all her alone time.
One day, while walking home from school, she heard her name called. Looking about in all directions, she saw no one. She could not know that Mnemosyne had stirred in her own slumbers, calling out to her.
And deep in that night, the girl awoke from a sound sleep, feeling a cool breath blowing into her forehead. A jumble of words came to mind, in that moment. She tried to go back to sleep, but the words kept her awake.
And so, she took up pencil and paper, and wrote the words down.
Only then was she allowed to fall back asleep.
When she woke in the morning, she looked, and there on the page was a little poem. How strange, she thought to herself. She didn’t know what to make of it. However she’d been given a diary, so she copied the little poem into the diary.
She’d always wanted to keep a diary; she’d read so many interesting diaries: Hadrian, Pascal, Steinbeck, Emerson, Frank, Twain. When she opened her diary to write in it, the blank page stared at her, and she tried to think of anything interesting to write down. But it all seemed so dull, the things that happened to her during the day.
But now she had one bit of something written in the diary.
***
And so, it began, a nocturnal adventure of writing. It nearly always started in the same manner.
A cool breath would blow into her forehead, and awaken her from deep sleep. She could not go to sleep until she wrote down the tangle of words.
In the morning, she would look at what was there. Sometimes she would read through and find it done. Sometimes, she would have to stir the words and add punctuation. On a few very odd occasions, the words rearranged themselves on the page. Finished bits she would write down in the diary.
She never questioned these events, nor did she talk about them. People would think I was a weirdo, she thought.
She thought the same thing on that day when a hummingbird zoomed in to examine her, at eye level. She looked, unflinching, into its eyes and saw a depth and beauty she knew she’d never be able to describe in words.
And that was okay, she realized. Not everything needs to be captured.
And on the day, years later, when she first really sang, the voice that welled up and poured out of her frame was the answer to what she realized had been a question.
All of this life’s journey is a gathering of sticks and stones and grasses and wool, meetings with the earth and all creatures—through the senses, with words and with song. All these meetings are free and reciprocal. You can hold them only so long before you must move on, as the hummingbird finally did. The most important things stick to you, and everything else falls by the wayside. The important things, you share, you give—as often as needed, with care and with love.
Oh, the gathered extra-dimensional audience gasped, YES!
And so it was in that moment that her proper name came to them. They called her δῠ́νᾰμαι, Capability.
© 2020 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen and songsofasouljourney.blogspot.com
