“Do you enjoy your teaching?” Her smile is crooked from the pain, her back bent farther over the stick. I wonder which of us is more ill. I never told anyone. My pain is not visible and there are no herbs to heal it.
“I did not do enough to be sure, but yes. It is not what I expected to do, and I am not sure it is done as well as someone else could.”
“From what I hear around the village, they are pleased with the little you did so far. And the children are ready to come. That is a wonderful sign.”
“Thank you, Ima. I love you.” She is proud of me.
After the morning meal, I ponder the coming lesson. “Dear sister, the children will be here in a few moments.” Does Nathan suspect my sickness? He hovered over me the past few moons.
While they wait for me to make myself as comfortable as I can, the children laugh and play. “Is everyone ready?” They quiet down. “This time we will try something different.” I sing a song about judgment. Their curiosity is obvious.
“There was another woman in Abraham’s group. She was beautiful. I was not. To me, her perfection meant no one could find anything wrong. But they could find a lot wrong with me. Do you ever feel like that?” Many heads nod.
“Close your eyes and picture a person who tells you that you are bad and is important in your life. It could be a parent, family member, or best friend, or me.” They snicker. “If they say bad things about us, we accept they are right. Their opinion says we are not good enough.” Heads nod. “We do not question it. Those bad feelings gets stored inside us and everything we do is weakened. Have you experienced this?”
“Yes, yes,” comes from all over the circle. There are a few no’s. Is the teaching not clear?
“What do you mean by weakened?” asked Eitana, one of the young girls.
I smile. “Good question. Picture someone telling you that a chore you did was not done properly. How would you feel?”
“Terrible.”
“Is that a definite feeling?”
“It is very strong.”
“Strong is an appropriate word. That is what your name means.” Eitana looks up. “If you have a bad feeling, the ache from it does not permit you to do any work well because there is fear of doing it wrong again.” She nods. “That is your answer.”
Some children laugh. “Do you want to be laughed at for learning something new? Do not laugh at others. We need to learn all our lives.” I turn to Eitana. “Remember you are strong.”
I take a moment to slow down. “Back to our exercise. Close your eyes and bring back the picture we had before of the judging person.” I wait. “This person is trying to help, not do harm. They act as if they know what is best, yet no one knows what we learned from our mistakes, or our thoughts, or struggles.” The children’s discomfort makes them shift around. “Someone else’s way does not leave room for your imagination and a new way you might find.”
They are settled and I smile. “You have done well. Abraham and Sarah would be proud.” They laugh and dance with delight on their faces.
When they use up some energy, I continue.
“What I am saying is that each of us is unique. Judging says we have to behave as someone else wants, and not be bold enough to do things our own way.” The group is quiet, and I let them sit with their feelings.
“My parents will never let me do anything different.” Anneke is soft spoken.
“You could try doing it your way and see if it turns out well.”
“What if it fails?”
“As someone once said to me, ‘Why think about failing before you begin? And do not give up after one try.’”
“I could never do that.” Caleb’s face is pale. His parents must be strict.
“Think about what I said to Anneke.”
Zara raises her hand, and I nod for her to speak. In her whiny voice she asks, “Are we finished yet?”
“In a moment. One last thought. Change is frightening. It takes courage and boldness. I found that out and so will you.” There is silence. We sing my song to remember the lesson.
“Does anyone have a question?” More silence. “That is more than enough to think about until next time.” They gather their things. The slowness of their walk and the silence tells me this teaching was right for them. I hope my teachers would approve.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
What woke me this morning were the tangles of my life. There were so many mistakes, so many failures, because I did not listen to those who tried to help.
I was a child and they called me evil. Then I was betrayed by Resheph and lost Abba. Doron was the greatest hurt of all. What was it all about? Do I thank you, God, for the painful lessons of love? It is time to go to the wash stand. Nathan stops me. His face is pale, and he is agitated.
“What is wrong?”
His hand grasps my arms as if to steady himself. “Ima. She is gone.”
“Gone?” I put my arms around him and we cry together. Rachel comes out of the hut and joins us. “She was kind to others and lived a good life,” is all she can say. We cannot let go of each other. This will be the most difficult thing I will do in in my life. My feet drag toward her sleep space. I gaze at my mother’s stillness and wait for her to get up and go to a sick friend. Rachel looks at me. “We must do our duty.”
Wailing signals the rituals. It reminds me of a fox or a jackal’s cry but is the sign for our neighbors to burn lavender, rosemary, and pieces of oak to disguise any odors. Rachel expects me to join in the washing of Ima’s body. Is a daughter supposed to see her mother unclothed? Or clean what came out of her at the moment of death? Her skin is wrinkled and hangs loose. The smells makes my stomach retch and heave. We clean and wash her, then cut her hair and nails.
My hands shake as we rub all manner of perfumed oils onto what is left of my ima. Then we dress her in strips of white linen strewn with spices prepared earlier knowing her time was coming near. The spices try to disguise the scent and make it sweet, but not like the day she was born.
Sleep does not come that night. Visions of the body I came out of do not leave my head.
At sunrise, I am unable to take in food. The others eat their meal. The village men began work moving the boulder away from the cave’s opening. We carry her outside and the entire village gathers to be with us. They encircle our group, the scents of oils and spices wrap around us as we carry her to the burial place.
The men are gentle setting her on the shelf built into the rock. She lays not far from Abba and her parents. Rachel and I draw her knees up and place her hands across her chest in order to fit into the small space. Time stands still. The weeping starts. It is so final. I cannot cry.
The rite of bare feet and tearing our clothes is completed. The children enjoy the freedom from sandals. There is one more step before we leave.
The men of the village gather around the immense boulder again. They struggle to roll it back to the opening of the cave. Each step assaults my heart. The final push, which fills the hole, means she will be protected from invasion from man or animals, but makes me wish I could disappear. The one comfort I have is that my mother is not among the less fortunate who have no shelf, only the ground to lie on.
I do not know what the family is feeling, but as the rock is secured, my heart wants my arms to hug it, to climb inside and be near her for the last time. I stand there staring at it. My ima is in there. I cannot drag myself away. Nathan does not say a word. He waits. And waits. He puts his arm around my waist and moves me back to the hut.
We sit in mourning for the next seven suns, and villagers come to visit. They offer food and help, and if possible, they sit to discuss my ima’s life. My mother’s death softened them toward me. They are pleasant, and nothing of the old times shows on their faces or in their eyes. It is still hard to make conversation. They do not stay long, there is work to do. They do this for ima and will soon do the same for me.
Before the next sun, I brood on how to teach the group the importance of words. I
cannot fail. This may be my last chance. I reclined during the morning in the healing sun to relieve my discomfort, but it is now time for the children.
They come running and drop onto the ground. “Can you move closer?” I have not been this nervous since the first teaching and wait for their movements to stop. The next breath fills my nostrils with the fresh scent of their soaped bodies.
For the first time it feels strange to teach in one of the fancy tunics Sarah gave me in Kiriath Arba. The children’s garments are the same as the ones we wore as youngsters. Either beige or brown, to the knees for boys, and the ankle for girls. They have never changed.
The group grew to more than thirty children, six to ten seasons of growth. They sit in three half-circles in front of me. I never did memorize their names.
“The teaching, please.” Dodi has limited patience. She is small like me, with a shining face. Her eyes are like Nathan’s, brown with yellow flecks.
“I am going to tell you how Abraham and Sarah taught me to know myself. To do that, I will tell you a little about me.” They settle in ready for a story.
A little one stands and declares, “I want to grow vegetables.”
“That is excellent work,” I assure her. She sits again, happy. “Many of you will not leave this village and will work with the soil or animals. All work is admirable. It is necessary and helps us and others. But do you learn about yourself? You can if you know how.
To do that you ask why. I was privileged to travel through most of our country, but that did not mean I learned about me. I had to be willing to do the work that would bring the change I wanted. Are you willing?” Many heads nod.
“Do you want to continue feeling angry, unhappy, confused, hurt, or defeated?” They shake their heads. “Do you want these feelings to change? To understand why you said that mean thing and hurt someone?” They nod.
“We learn and grow by asking why I did or said that. Was it jealousy? Was it meanness? Did I want something? Once you recognize the answer, the ability to change opens. It takes time but it can be done.
“You can tell by the way I use music to teach that I love it. My parents were against it.” Some of them sit up. “They said it was a waste of time and did not help with work.” The children are sad, and some with lined brows and half closed eyes seem to have the same sort of problem. “When you were little, what did you love to do, not work, do?
“Even if we love work it is important to pay attention to the part of us that wants something of our own.” I look around the group. “It can be more than one thing. For me it was music and an altar where I collected special things. Here is a question to take home and ponder. Are you willing to dig deep and ask yourself why?”
The grass is rustling. It warns me the children are restless. I lean toward them. “It is time to end. We will be together again soon.” I snuggle into the covering to rest. The youngsters are doing well, but am I missing something? Resheph would tease about needing to be perfect. The telling of my story was the right thing to do. The children accepted it without question.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Another messenger arrived this morning to tell me Abraham brought Hagar back to Kiriath Arba as his wife. That man could hardly walk and was exhausted. He accepted food and water. How dare Abraham? That is Sarah’s home not Hagar’s. And, they are promising to produce many more children. It turns out that in the end, Hagar knew. Abraham wanted her.
I do what I can these days, but the pain increases. I rest on my mat outside, but I am not complete. There are still things that must be done before I leave this realm. I hope they can hear me.
To Resheph:
It is a long time since we were together, Resheph, and I do not know where you are or what you are doing. I hope you took Abraham’s lessons to heart. Yes, that is his name now. I choose to hold true that you did not know the harm you caused me, for I could not love an evil person. To believe you would not violate me if you knew how horrific the consequences were.
I no longer blame myself, I am sure of that now. Sandalphon once asked me if you were a want or a need. It took a long time for me to understand you were just a want. I lost myself in you and gave you my power, sure you would love me because I loved you so much. I wanted to please you and in doing so, I forgot myself.
Until now, I could not pardon you. It was not in my heart. Remember the lesson? Now I am ready, for I too question things I did and am not proud of. The difference is I now claim all I am. Good and bad. I no longer blame you, but still cannot forgive what you did. And for now, that is all I can do. I wish you well.
Now for one more.
To the chief and the villagers:
I want to make clear that I am not odd or peculiar. When I studied with Abraham, I found out that there are many others like me. But I am sorry for the problems and exasperation I caused. I did not do it on purpose. I was young and no one understood me. Now I wish to clear away any misunderstandings. I forgive you for everything that happened and if I hurt you, I hope you can excuse me. And know that you are in my heart.
The last and hardest one.
Dearest Abba,
I did not do this earlier because I could not be sure of what I wanted to say. The one thing I am sure of is missing you so much. But that is not what I want to talk about. I am sorry for the anger I caused. I did not mean to. Life was frustrating for me. I did not belong anywhere. I was different, stupid, not worthy. You gave me a harp, and I could not play it. You did not want me to sing. But I never stopped loving you. Never wanted you to stop sending me the smiles that warmed my heart and said you loved me.
You left us before I could tell you of my wonderful life with Abraham and Sarah and what they taught me. And how I could teach the children. But what I must say is that I forgive you for the times you hurt me or did not let me do what I wanted. I now understand the reasons. I explained that to Ima. About learning things as a child from your parents and believing those things without question. You are in my heart forever.
Your loving daughter, Elisha.
“Elisha, the children will be here soon.” That is Nathan, making sure I do not forget. As if I could.
“Nathan?” I call after him. “Thank you.”
At the first meeting, the children’s greeting astonished me. They marched toward me, in perfect step, and said, “Peace be with you, Ancient One.” I wanted to protest and say that it was two moons since I was a girl. Their description now fits.
They are about to sit, and I come alive and vibrant again. That is what Sandalphon meant about feeding my soul.
“Peace be with you.” There is a tremor in my voice, and I gulp down water. “I am glad to see all of you. Are you enjoying the teaching?” That gives me time to get comfortable. They are here, that is all that matters.
“If you were to feel wonderful all the time, what do you think would happen?”
“I would be happy.” Zara’s name implies she feels like a visitor and has few friends. But her singing sounds the way I imagine the angels do.
“Would you like that?” They shake their heads. “I will show you how I did it.”
They quiet to listen. “Please close your eyes. Say thank you for all the good things that happened since our last meeting. Be sure it comes from your heart.
“Was that easy?” They nod. “Who would like to tell what happened?”
Gianna raises her hand. “I was more than happy, but there is no name for it.”
“It is joy and comes from being grateful. Anyone else go through a different experience?”
“I felt as if I could do anything,” says Hana. “It gave me strength and confidence.”
“Did any of you think that being grateful could make life better?” The faces they make say they understand. “Imagine if you do this each sunrise, how you will feel, what you will accomplish.
“Who else would like to share?”
“I felt light as if I could reach the clouds. My heart quivered and sang.” This child has musi
c in his heart.
“What we are learning is to feed your soul. Who likes to sing and dance?” They all get up and dance.
“Where is the singing?” They sing a folk song and end with a song I wrote. “Time to work. Who wants to tell us how that went?”
“It was fun, and I feel perfect.” That is one of the older boys.
“Did you worry if you were doing it right?”
All their heads shake. “No,” comes from around the gathering.
“Wrinkling your brow does not help to solve problems, it just makes you pace the floor or bite your lips. Feeding the soul brings soothing feelings of warmth in your whole body. Then you can focus on solving your problem with ease. Will you remember this the next time you have concerns?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” they yell. They sing and dance, and I can rest.
The children tire and we continue. “I want to add one more thing. Music is healing. If we hear happy music, we are inspired. Sad music, we are gloomy. If you wish to change how you feel, make or listen to music. Now I want to tell you something that happened to me. I was walking through a forest and a bird was singing. I imitated its song and it answered me. Our conversation went on and on. I do not know what message it wanted to give me, but it was a delightful experience and made me happy for three suns.”
“Is that true?”
“I promise it is. Here is another way to feed your soul. Remove your sandals.” They look at me to be sure I am not fooling. “Yes, sandals off. I will join you. Now, into the grass. Stand here and feel the ground underneath the grass. Note what you feel. Walk a little. Feel. Walk again and then stand still. See if you can feel connected to the soil.” I give them a moment. “You know how this works, who wants to speak?”
One of the younger children raises his hand. “It felt good.”
“Can you use another word to explain?”
Mountain of Full Moons Page 27