“Tedam! What should I do when I find a snail in my flowers?” I asked, holding up the small creature for his inspection.
“Place him as far from the eggplants as possible.” Tedam laughed. He was weeding the vegetables. “Over there, by those dandelions.” He pointed to a patch of thick green grass growing by the cliffside. I leapt out of the sunflowers. “Be careful! The snail may look tough with his heavy armor and penchant for invading flower gardens, but he’s delicate.”
“He’s pretty.” I stroked the snail’s intricately patterned shell with a dirty fingernail.
“Look close enough and you will find that everything is beautiful.”
“Even my fingernails?”
“Even your fingernails.”
“Even my toes?” I looked down, wriggling my feet in the mud.
He smiled. "Especially your toes. Your toes taste the dirt and the dirt makes things grow."
I wandered over to the cliff edge, placing the little snail underneath a dandelion so it had shelter from the rain. It was just misting, but I could tell we were due for a downpour.
~~~
Our temple was built from old stone. The large blocks of hewn rock had slowly sunk into the heath. The arched entryway stood world-weary and proud, while the light that filtered through the primitive windows was timeless, rhythmic, and ever-changing; a little like our songs. Each morning and evening the monks would fill the place with music. They said singing is like watering the garden God planted in our bellies.
Inside the temple were beeswax candles. Nothing grew, except our voices as they echoed and folded. Twice a day, as the sun rose and set, I listened to the singing, to the light, and the softly whispering stone. And I prayed. I prayed to the seasons and to the old language. I asked God to make my world beautiful, to conduct my reality to a perfect piece of music. God synchronized the stars to my heartbeat, to the melting wax.
It was my duty to place the flowers on the altar. I presented my God with pretty blossoms.
~~~
After prayers, after tending our gardens, I would study. I learned geometry, history, philosophy, and language. Tedam was my teacher. He knew everything. But I was a precocious student and he always said that God was a dialectical passion, so we debated. Together we carved our own melody into God’s unyielding rhythm.
~~~
“Mendir!” Tedam called. I jogged over. “Isn’t this the most perfect thing?” He presented me with one of his precious eggplants.
I examined the purple vegetable’s odd oblong shape. “Yes.”
“Try modeling those curves with mathematics.”
“I don’t think I could.”
“And that’s just marvelous.” He sighed. “I am going to roast this tonight with some sumak, what do you think? Is there anything else you would add?”
“Maybe put some Zemar bark into the fire, it would give it a nice aroma.”
~~~
“Is our religion monothiestic?”
“Huh?” Tedam looked up from the manuscript he was translating.
“Is our religion monothiestic?” I repeated.
He smiled. “Our God is either singular or infinite. It depends on your perspective. But I should have you argue both sides. It would be an excellent rhetorical exercise.”
“But the ancient texts, our mythology, it’s full of different deities. Each of those deities has their own personality cult. Besides the obvious similarities between rituals and creation myths, I have never been able to reconcile the religion of the ancients with what we practice here in the monastery.”
“What would you hear if you went down to the bog right now?”
I cocked my head curiously, then grinned “A near infinite amount of mosquitos buzzing.” My grin softened. “If I listened close enough I could maybe hear the Tema flowers blossoming.”
“Everything is growing and dying.”
“Yes.”
“Everything is in the process of sculpting it’s little piece of God.”
I was used to the casual way Tedam tore God apart, like clay. “Yes.”
“The ancient texts tell the story of the gods inside our kings.”
“So in the city, it’s those gods, those pieces of God that are worshiped?”
“Yes.”
“Place him as far from the eggplants as possible.” Tedam laughed. He was weeding the vegetables. “Over there, by those dandelions.” He pointed to a patch of thick green grass growing by the cliffside. I leapt out of the sunflowers. “Be careful! The snail may look tough with his heavy armor and penchant for invading flower gardens, but he’s delicate.”
“He’s pretty.” I stroked the snail’s intricately patterned shell with a dirty fingernail.
“Look close enough and you will find that everything is beautiful.”
“Even my fingernails?”
“Even your fingernails.”
“Even my toes?” I looked down, wriggling my feet in the mud.
He smiled. "Especially your toes. Your toes taste the dirt and the dirt makes things grow."
I wandered over to the cliff edge, placing the little snail underneath a dandelion so it had shelter from the rain. It was just misting, but I could tell we were due for a downpour.
~~~
Our temple was built from old stone. The large blocks of hewn rock had slowly sunk into the heath. The arched entryway stood world-weary and proud, while the light that filtered through the primitive windows was timeless, rhythmic, and ever-changing; a little like our songs. Each morning and evening the monks would fill the place with music. They said singing is like watering the garden God planted in our bellies.
Inside the temple were beeswax candles. Nothing grew, except our voices as they echoed and folded. Twice a day, as the sun rose and set, I listened to the singing, to the light, and the softly whispering stone. And I prayed. I prayed to the seasons and to the old language. I asked God to make my world beautiful, to conduct my reality to a perfect piece of music. God synchronized the stars to my heartbeat, to the melting wax.
It was my duty to place the flowers on the altar. I presented my God with pretty blossoms.
~~~
After prayers, after tending our gardens, I would study. I learned geometry, history, philosophy, and language. Tedam was my teacher. He knew everything. But I was a precocious student and he always said that God was a dialectical passion, so we debated. Together we carved our own melody into God’s unyielding rhythm.
~~~
“Mendir!” Tedam called. I jogged over. “Isn’t this the most perfect thing?” He presented me with one of his precious eggplants.
I examined the purple vegetable’s odd oblong shape. “Yes.”
“Try modeling those curves with mathematics.”
“I don’t think I could.”
“And that’s just marvelous.” He sighed. “I am going to roast this tonight with some sumak, what do you think? Is there anything else you would add?”
“Maybe put some Zemar bark into the fire, it would give it a nice aroma.”
~~~
“Is our religion monothiestic?”
“Huh?” Tedam looked up from the manuscript he was translating.
“Is our religion monothiestic?” I repeated.
He smiled. “Our God is either singular or infinite. It depends on your perspective. But I should have you argue both sides. It would be an excellent rhetorical exercise.”
“But the ancient texts, our mythology, it’s full of different deities. Each of those deities has their own personality cult. Besides the obvious similarities between rituals and creation myths, I have never been able to reconcile the religion of the ancients with what we practice here in the monastery.”
“What would you hear if you went down to the bog right now?”
I cocked my head curiously, then grinned “A near infinite amount of mosquitos buzzing.” My grin softened. “If I listened close enough I could maybe hear the Tema flowers blossoming.”
“Everything is growing and dying.”
“Yes.”
“Everything is in the process of sculpting it’s little piece of God.”
I was used to the casual way Tedam tore God apart, like clay. “Yes.”
“The ancient texts tell the story of the gods inside our kings.”
“So in the city, it’s those gods, those pieces of God that are worshiped?”
“Yes.”
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