Creation Story

When I was born—my world being previously void of corners but still finite; smothered but not suffocated; loud but calming; dark but still safe; and warm without knowing cold—a force swept away all I had known. It made me forget so I could learn.

Light now dominated my life. Sometimes it blinded me. Other times it left me. The harder times were when its colors moved. I never settled on how I should feel. My eyes could see, but I didn’t know how to look.

Everything was 2D. A moving painting. A squiggly figure had the power to change my painting’s Light. I attached myself to her and soon babbled “Mama” to brighten her face. This was the only Light I could control. This was my first year.

On my 1st birthday, I stood. No longer was my world 2D, for distance and perspective revealed themselves. Quick things made me flinch. Slow things gravitated my eyes. Walking was inevitable.

I reached my hands towards the Sky. It was infinite water that wasn’t wet. Water I couldn’t drink. Whenever it cried, my parents protected me from its tears. The Sky kept me at the center. It was my big bubble. I still wanted to touch it, maybe even pop it.

I toddled away from my parents, thinking independence would reveal the Sky’s secrets. I ran. I tripped, and I fell. My parents picked me up. Closer to the Sky, but still out of reach. A few new words couldn’t convincingly blame my parents, but they soothed me nonetheless. This was my second year.

On my 2nd birthday, I discovered the Ocean. This dangerous water let me get close. If anything, it wanted me close. I fell in, and it took me away. There was no bubble for me here. My dad picked me up quick. I was scared.

I threw rocks at the mean water. I kicked it when it slithered up to my feet. I told it to go away. This space was “mine!” The safe Earth I took for granted was “mine.” Even my Sky bubble was mine! I was angry.

I learned more about my Earth. I plucked leaves, smelled flowers, swung branches, ate fruit, and swallowed seeds. This was good. I was happy. This was my third year.

On my 3rd birthday, I stayed up late outside. I saw a small sun my parents called the Moon. They called the little, winking grains of salt that peppered the sleeping Sky “Stars.” Neither mommy or daddy would be able to clean up that big of a mess, no matter how long the cleanup song could sing.

After this night, I understood the true Sun. No fires or lights could be called “sun” anymore. The Sun was special. I asked “why.” My parents didn’t answer sufficiently. I asked “why” many more times, but, again, not enough.

Before, I couldn’t look at the Sun because it hurt. Now, I knew I shouldn’t. I imagined the Sun and Moon as a big balls mommy threw so high in the air. I wondered if they’d ever fall down. This was my fourth year.

On my 4th birthday, I touched a stingray. The aquarium showed creatures big and small that lived in the dangerous waters. There were pretty orange and purple fish. There were sad, gray and blue fish too. It wasn’t fair.

I counted up to seven when my dad asked, but I didn’t know what was more than that. I lied and said, “a million.” Dad smiled. I was happy he believed me.

Some fish looked fun. Others looked bored. Many looked like monsters, and I knew that they couldn’t be mommies and daddies of the small fish. Families are special.

Then, I realized the Sky had its own kind of fish too. Chirping birds swam through the sky higher than I could ever reach. They rested in trees or on the ground sometimes, but they would run away from me. This wasn’t fair; I wanted to be friends. I drew pictures to show them. I hopped on one leg to bounce around like they did. But every time I got close, they always swam away through the Sky. This was my fifth year.

On my 5th birthday, my dog bit me. I cried at first, but it didn’t hurt that much so I stopped. My mom yelled at my friend and put him outside. I felt bad I got him in trouble. I had poked his eye on purpose.

I learned I was different that animals. All of my family were different. We were better than animals. And there were so many animals with so many names! I was embarrassed to think that animals could ever understand my words.

Dad let me help in the garden too. I counted ten tomatoes! We ate them for dinner. Mom let me cut my own slice into two halves. I remarked how cool it was that baby seeds could become their own plants. Dad told me instructions and I remembered. Dig, plant, cover, water, wait. Five steps. Easy because I’m five too.

Before, the garden was a playground of smelly plants, creeping bugs, and wet dirt. Now, I knew we watered so they’d grow big. These were our plants to take care of so they could take care of us. I joked that’d I’d spray my dad with hose water. He was scared for a second. I laughed. This was my sixth year.

On my 6th birthday, I realized I wasn’t the only one thinking things. I made a friend. We played, cried, ran, napped, built things, broke things, and fought. I realized that making me happy sometimes made my friend sad. Somethings that made my friend happy would make me sad. I didn’t want this. I her wanted to be my friend!

I understood that we could both be happy and play. I realized all people think things, get happy, laugh, and cry. Other people throw tantrums too. And sometimes it was my fault. I had to calm my mouth in order to listen. It was hard sometimes, but I rested my mouth and body so that others could smile and rest too. And this was holy.