Don't tell me nature isn't a miracle. Don't tell me the world isn't a fairy tale. Anyone who hasn't realised that, may never understand until the fairy tale is just about to end. Then there is one final chance to tear off the blinkers, a last chance to rub your eyes in amazement, a final opportunity to abandon yourself to the wonder you are bidding farewell to and leaving.
The Orange Girl
Reading another Jostein Gaarder is like a chocolate bar after a year-long diet. I breezed through this in a day and it ended too quickly, leaving me with a strange tangy-sweet-bitter-melancholic-nostalgic taste. I think I have been gripped with Habitophobia again. The world has grown on me, and I needed this nudge to get fascinated again.
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Georg is reading the letter his dead father wrote him before he died that was only just discovered. His dad is telling him a story- of when he is three and in his arms, out in the backyard. They're looking up at a star-filled sky.
The last time I saw a sky like that was in Baghdad, eleven years ago. A vivid memory. I can see us four cousins on the rooftop of our home, feeling adventurous. We crouch low, peer outside, at a dark street lined with neat rectangular homes and incredibly tall palm trees, silent except for the occasional cricket chirp. From here we can see the front garden of our neighbours on the left, their big brown guard dog standing attentive. One of us throws a pebble, and the dog stands higher, his ears straight. Another pebble and he is barking now- loud barks that pierce the still air. We stuff our hands in our mouths, trying to stifle the giggles. And then the sound of a front door unlocking and the neighbour is out, and we are clambouring over each other to crouch down, unseen. It is then that I lay my back against the wall and look up. Innumerable stars shine back at me. I have never seen anything like this before. It's like somebody painted the entire sky pitch-black and glued tiny diamond bits all over.
Don't tell me the starry sky isn't a miracle.
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I'm making Spaghetti with Tuna Sauce for lunch. Cutting the onions half an hour earlier because I know what it does to me. I chew gum and try not to smell but none of that works. The knife slices through and I am weeping insanely, temporarily blinded. I take a breath, wipe the tears away and resume the cutting, trying to see through my stingy eyes. It's amazing what a little vegetable can do to you.
Don't tell me that's not a miracle.
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The Orange Girl
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Georg is reading the letter his dead father wrote him before he died that was only just discovered. His dad is telling him a story- of when he is three and in his arms, out in the backyard. They're looking up at a star-filled sky.
The last time I saw a sky like that was in Baghdad, eleven years ago. A vivid memory. I can see us four cousins on the rooftop of our home, feeling adventurous. We crouch low, peer outside, at a dark street lined with neat rectangular homes and incredibly tall palm trees, silent except for the occasional cricket chirp. From here we can see the front garden of our neighbours on the left, their big brown guard dog standing attentive. One of us throws a pebble, and the dog stands higher, his ears straight. Another pebble and he is barking now- loud barks that pierce the still air. We stuff our hands in our mouths, trying to stifle the giggles. And then the sound of a front door unlocking and the neighbour is out, and we are clambouring over each other to crouch down, unseen. It is then that I lay my back against the wall and look up. Innumerable stars shine back at me. I have never seen anything like this before. It's like somebody painted the entire sky pitch-black and glued tiny diamond bits all over.
Don't tell me the starry sky isn't a miracle.
_______________________________________________________________
I'm making Spaghetti with Tuna Sauce for lunch. Cutting the onions half an hour earlier because I know what it does to me. I chew gum and try not to smell but none of that works. The knife slices through and I am weeping insanely, temporarily blinded. I take a breath, wipe the tears away and resume the cutting, trying to see through my stingy eyes. It's amazing what a little vegetable can do to you.
Don't tell me that's not a miracle.
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