Here's the start of something. Or maybe it's the middle of something.

There was a picture book in my third grade classroom, by William Steig, I think—I remember it almost vividly. I might retrieve the title if I think long enough, but the story was about a donkey who found a magic pebble. Did he know it was magic? I can’t remember—but only that when it was in his hand (or hoof) he could wish to be changed into anything he wanted. One day out in the countryside a lion crossed his path, and in a panic the donkey wished he was a boulder. You can guess the dilemma he was in next, like I did in my eager wisdom of eight years, shaking my head as I turned the page: the donkey now trapped in inanimacy couldn’t pick up his magic pebble to wish himself back. What could he do? I forgot how the book ended.

It was a powerful moral tale at that time in my life, setting a precedent in my forays of imagination. And it was this, I believe, that cautioned me never, if given the chance, to wish I could become my dog, because even as I itched with curiosity to experience his dogness—just for a few minutes—I risked locking myself out of humanness for good not knowing if, as a dog, I would be able to wish myself back. Once between his ears, would I have the sense to take up again that pebble, as it were, to reverse the effect? I tried to sidestep the issue by imagining a clause that guaranteed a two-way trip. But in the end I couldn’t get around it, and the thought haunted me.

thoughts

It's been a while since my last post, hasn't it? I need to get back in the swing of writing, though; my first big creative writing assignment for my nonfiction class is due on monday. Please send suggestions. :)

I had an eerie, semiprofound experience today in the early morning hours of sleep. For a minute, as if half-conscious, I remember being aware of myself sleeping. I guess that happens all the time. But then, be it the news radio of my alarm or a dream, I was caused to imagine for a second that I was not between soft sheets but in a violent, war-stricken place, curled up on a hard surface, dozing without peace from the thought that I might be in harm's way. My heart leapt and I opened my eyes to be sure of myself.
Embracing sleep again, I had never been more thankful to be in a comfortable bed. Likewise I felt a tight knot of shame that I have always accepted a soft, warm, safe place to sleep as fact. But how many millions in the world were started awake last night with a shiver, or hunger pains, or a dread of danger, or a fear of demons?

doctrine

Since June I've been reading through the Prophet Jeremiah. It's difficult at times, like today, with lots of repetition and gloomy promises. I'm in chapter 50, where God pronounces judgment on the Babylonians (just like He promised). Then I get to wondering, "would the Word be just as complete if one chapter of this was missing? How about one verse? How about one metaphor?'' I wouldn't want, I wouldn't dare, to say yes to that, but I still wonder.

groaning

Voices on the NPR news with Rene Montaigne pulled me from sleep this morning. I lay in bed for a while, hoping to be hearing dreams and not real voices reporting "the tens of thousands still stranded on rooftops and piers without food and water," the "rotting bodies" and "overcrowded hospitals where infectious diseases are becoming a serious risk," where they "have started to use an empty stairwell as an extra morgue," where "at night you hear gunshots and people are frantic." The national guard has orders to "shoot to kill" to ward off looters; the governor of Mississippi is disgusted with how little help has come. Three days after Katrina, the aftermath swells like an infected wound.
I stood up and took a few steps in the half dark and didn't know what to do. I just stood there, looking at the radio and at the wall, my night's rest outweighed by a tired heart.
"Father" I groaned.