A Creation Story

There have been countless risings and fallings, each beginning believing itself to be the first, though always and ever there was before.

Curious Joy awoke into wind and darkness. He believed himself to be the first and only. Above was black and open. Below was black and closed. This was the world and he was in it, the dancer in between.

Everything he knew, he learned by touch — lifting, turning and caressing. The edges of the world told themselves to him, stories of accretion and compression, erosion and fracture, fraught affairs with wind and ice, forgotten dreams of fire. It seemed in all the world he was the only breathing thing. Nothing told him different.

And then he came upon the bone.

Just the one, a singular thing, and ancient beyond measure where he had thought the world so new and he so first and only. When his fingers brushed against it, a golden light bloomed in his hand, a honeyed sweetness that moved up and through him in a wave and a moan. That bone, that bone. She had been, in a time before time, a being of infinite love. Golden and sumptuous as a cloud bank, she was music she was color she was light and she was gone.

Alone in the windy dark, Curious Joy discovered loneliness, and Curious Joy discovered longing. He folded the lone finger bone to his chest and he wept, and then he slept.

In his sleep he dreamt, and in his dream he saw the way and waking set about the task of delicately hollowing out the little bone, polishing it smooth and drilling holes along it’s length. Then he put it to his lips and he played.

His breath moving through the little bone flute was answered by her voice and light flooded into the world again and yes was born that day.

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