Mia’s Day – A Short Story

Mia went down to the caves from time to time in the summer. There was less water to wade through and the drips from the ceiling seemed warmer than in winter. She wasn’t afraid of the creatures crawling along the walls. They were tiny with many legs and hard shells. The occasional spider darted across her hand as she felt along the wall of green slime. She would shudder, but didn’t scream. She had learnt that screaming was for a state of emergency only. She also learnt that the little black things above her head were bats, not birds. Her books told her that they couldn’t be vampires, so that was alright. In fact, being in the caves on her own was absolutely fine. This is how she liked it.

 Soon she came to the paintings. She put down her torch and placed her palms and fingers over the hand prints on the ceiling above her head. She had grown since last time. There were three hand prints, each one bigger than the last. Mia decided they were birthday prints, that every year on the ancient child’s birthday, her mama did a handprint with her so they could see how much she had grown. Mia used to do this with her papa and mama on the kitchen wall and in letters sent to dida and baba. Her fingers splayed across a large sheet of airplane light paper for sending abroad. She hadn’t seen her grandparents since before the war.

 Mia sat for a while, took out a paper napkin, unwrapped it and ate the piece of babka as she sat and stared at the hands on the wall. After a while the show began. The hands started a dance across the wall, making puppets with their fingers, miming the life they knew, pretending to light a fire, to make a garment with needles. Mia giggled as she watched, crumbs from her cake falling to the ground which delighted all the small creatures. A treat for her was a treat for them.

 Every time she came to the caves the hands would share a story or two. She understood what they were saying. She wondered if the ancient child had been to school. Mia missed going and hoped to return soon. It was time to go back home. She picked up her torch and clambered out to the top of the hole into the forest around her.

 She put the torch in her basket and a red hat on her head. Now she was Red Riding Hood, walking along the path, listening for a wolf. She had to call in at Jovan’s house and collect some yarns for weaving and knitting. This is why she had her basket that day. Mia was hoping for some stuffed cabbage leaves for her tea later. She was still not very good at cooking, but could make a soup and pancakes if she had to. Mostly Jovan and his wife made sure Mia had something to eat every day.

 Nobody inside. A parcel and note had been left for Mia behind the large pot of basil. She looked carefully for a snake. It wasn’t there. She popped everything in her basket and carried on up the steep cobbled street looking out for the wolf all the way home. Wolves and snakes were everywhere at that time, watching everyone who came and went in the small town by the river.

 Mia placed the cabbage leaves on the stove top for later, then took out the hanks of yarn, dyed in gold, red and green. She had enough to make a few pairs of socks to sell at the market, to soldiers and townspeople who would readily buy or exchange goods for her beautiful designs. She might have enough left to make a small rabbit for Marija’s baby.

 She sat by the window in her kitchen, where she could look out for dangerous beasts as well as ones she would welcome in to her home. The window slightly open for fresh air and warmth of the sun, her radio on, she listened to music, Mia put one hank at a time over a chair and wound a ball of yarn from each one, going clockwise until all were ready for making.

 She flexed her fingers, wriggled them, then looked at her hands. She kissed each one as she whispered blessings quietly to herself. Now there would be magic as she made each sock. She picked up her five small thin needles of wood and rubbed them to warm them up. Then she began casting on, ten stitches on each of four needles bringing them together in a circle. She rocked in her chair like baba used to, whispering long poems, smiling, calling on all her spirits to help with the making of each sock.

 They came in one by one, the rabbit, the deer, a crow. Sitting with Mia in her kitchen, they all recited poems, nodding as Mia finished each sock with a flourish, combining the red, green and gold. She made four pairs in one afternoon, long socks ready for autumn. Now for the rabbit. With a quick final cast-off the small animal was done. She had accomplished much on this day. Yarns and needles gave her peace, focus in a world full of worry, longing, of missing all who had abandoned her a few weeks ago, or was it months.

 Mia couldn’t remember. She only knew what she had made, sold and bartered. She only knew there was Jovan and his wife Milena at the bottom of the cobbled street, that the wolves appeared at any time to claim a victim. She hoped one day the troubles would end and she would be free, perhaps rescued by someone, taken away or that everyone might return and the town would be busy again. The rabbit, deer and crow left. Mia closed the window and went to put on the stove to warm her cabbage parcels.

 

Knitted Baba Doll via Pinterest

Metanoia

Metanoia means afterthought, from meta meaning “after” or “beyond” and nous meaning “mind”. In Classical Greek metanoia meant changing one’s mind about someone or something. When personified, Metanoia was depicted as a shadowy goddess, cloaked and sorrowful, who accompanied Kairos, the god of Opportunity, sowing regret and inspiring repentance for the “missed moment”.

What is changing one’s mind and when does it happen. Metanoia often refers to a spiritual change. But what is that spiritual thing. For me it resides in the house of creativity. I have to brave it to go deeper and fight the fear.

Fear is a good hijacker of emotions as are the monsters that lurk. Call out that beast. Hone your creative zeal and keep the focus, daily – that is the advice to myself. Al little every day, of exploring creativity, art, words, music.

There’s a shadow, a lesion. Paint it out to the world. Don’t hide.

Starting over

I am, I’m starting over again. Retracing steps, gingerly. No giving up or in, but keeping on. And I’m not going to talk about it either – the thing I’m doing again. It involves writing and reading. There, that’s all I will say.

It was this passage in The Alchemist that provided some inspiration after months of darkness and difficulties.

The old man leafed through the book, and fell to reading a page he came to. The boy waited, and then interrupted the old man just as he himself had been interrupted. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because you are trying to realise your destiny. And you are at the point where you’re about to give it all up.”

Doubt can eat a person up. Many things in life conspire to stop we humans from sticking with it. I owe it to myself and my closest to not walk away from the discipline required, the solace, the peace. I have to tune back in to my intuition.