Creation Moon

What happens the moment before Creation? The Book of Genesis begins with the following: B'reshit bara Elohim et Hashamayim v'et ha'aretz: In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth.

But the Greeks envisioned a moment before Creation which was a backdrop, a reason for Creation. It was called CHAOS.

Chaos

Beyond the deep,

lost, spinning, mad--

the children of Atom

in infinite clad

Colliding, gliding,

by splendor surrounded--

black masses gather,

form darkness unbounded.

No fingers to grasp,

No true hands to hold,

Still quick spirits grasp,

The substance to mold.

Somewhere there lives

a hope unfulfilled

In the core of its being,

not muted, not stilled.

A song with no sound,

a dream with no form,

a memory of future,

by Chaos foresworn.

With an aching unspoken,

the Universe bends--

a shudder, a sighing ...

the moment begins ...

from Creation: A Tale of Our Birth © March 2003

Dimentica

I am called Dimentica. My home is a still place; at night, you can only hear crickets, and they start and stop suddenly as if something startled them. What could it be? I did not go to school and no one tried to hurt me or make me feel stupid, but I know I am stupid. It is a little cold tonight, so I go to the willow tree and take my cloak to wrap around me. It has burrs and little globs of sap and white bird droppings; but they have dried, and I don’t mind. The burrs scratch a little, but it is good to feel something, even something scratchy.

What happened to all the squirrels that used to play here? They were thin, but there were still acorns and only three wolves. Where did they go? No one shot the wolves, but they howled day and night, and I could not talk to them and find out what was wrong. I think maybe the moon looks different. Did it used to have more silver ribbons hanging from it? Now clouds stream over its face. And is the moon an it? How can the lonely moon be it?

We are the same, I think. We are both alone, but the moon is not stupid. She is able to reflect light, and then she shines. So this is to be a god or goddess, to shine. If you shine, you are brilliant. This is the same. People will look up and see you are really something. They will want you. They may bow to you, and bring you little presents—insides of nuts, fruit, maybe a knife to cut with.

Where are the people now? Whenever I sleep, I travel to places where there are people, but I cannot touch them. Something is wrong with my hands. They are too thin, or my body doesn’t have the normal ways to feel. And I am ashamed to not feel beautiful and I think of myself as dirty, because it is only possible to wash off the grains of dirt and gravel when the light rain comes, and this is only once every five days, or even less now in …. Summer? Spring?

Again, I lose the right word. I wonder if there is another language to use to understand, to make me able to take things in my hand, hold them, and know their essence, then find what names are right to call things, ideas, animals and birds and … the tree I really like best. It is a very old, tall tree with heavy branches and crumbling bark. The roots must go very very deep so it still can have water and tiny buds when the season is warmer. The buds are babies, I think. Babies. Where are the babies? Did the wolves lose their babies? I remember a sound of booming and think there was a large bird that took animals away, but not to eat. But if not to eat, why?

 My most important word is “why.” Now I think that if I am able to ask, to know how to ask why, to wonder about something, then I am not stupid. Because it is possible to believe an answer may be somewhere. I want to sleep, to go back to the city where words and images, and energy, and life, and … babies … are alive. A new thought. Start with the babies. Maybe they will see me, because they have not yet been taught to be afraid of the unseen. It is worth a try. A thought begins in me.

The moon is my mother…she has the book. When I touch the book, I think it belongs to a witch, the book is pulsing, shivering. But then I hear music. It is a song, a new one. The song is:

In the city the traffic flows like the rivers once flowed, but they are no more. Once they wove throughout a land where barefoot people sat, sang and fished near them. Their king scattered oats, and their queen offered spider webs, strong as silk, for capes and slippers. In the corners of their caves were beehives with swarms of black bees whooshing in and out when the sun opened and closed, as is doing now.

The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary, but she is enough. The spindly spiders are making strong and dew-light webs. Tomorrow there will be food for all living in this realm. And extra for the babies.

After Dimentica, there was a poem from a lover. She was more powerful than she ever believed. He hoped, prayed, and then knew. She was the beginning, and the Moon was truly her mother.

Creation Moon

When I lay near the ceiling, looking down at her

her center was the beginning of moon ...

her breasts were satellites, I would circle them

with my fingers, hardly breathing ...

everything round about her was the beginning

of my universe, of the whole universe..

her eyes were burning stars,

soon their fire would sear me

to the point where I would burn,

then burst into eternal flame

She started it all, and I was inspired now,

I would finish it. We would call the constellations,

Salt, water, ice, glaciers couldn’t stop it.

The spinning, the explosions of future,

it all started with her, and I just followed,

crawling, begging, a supplicant to her power.

Katherine Lansing Davis

© April 6, 2024