Now I’ve started, it’s lovely to see the empty pages that stretch before me. Writing will be like a journey, every word a footstep that takes me further into an undiscovered land.
Look at the way the words move across the page and fill the empty spaces. Did God feel like this when he started to fill the emptiness? Is there a God? Was there ever emptiness? I don’t know, but it doesn’t stop me wondering and wondering[1].
My motto’s written on paper and pinned above my bed:
It’s by William Blake. Blake the Misfit, Blake the Outsider. Just like me. He was a painter and a poet and some people said he was mad – just like they say about me. Maybe he was out too much in the moon. Sometimes he wore no clothes. Sometimes he saw angels in his garden. He saw spirits all around him. I think he was very sane. So does my mum, so did my dad. I will write with William Blake in mind. I will write about the sad things, of course, because there is no way not to write about the sad things. And there are sad things in my life. Well, ONE BIG SAD AND HORRIBLE THING. Weirdly enough, the sad things in my life make the happy things seem more intense. I wonder if other people feel like that, if they feel that sadness, in a weird way, can help to make you more intensely happy. That’s what’s known as a paradox, I suppose.
What a word! It sounds good, looks good, and the meaning’s good! And if something is a paradox, it is PARADOXICAL. Which is an even better word!
That’s the kind of nickname I’d like to have. Not Typical McKee, but Paradoxical McKee!
Or Nonsensical McKee, of course.
Anyway, I’ll try to make my words break out of the cages of sadness, and make them sing for joy.
Suddenly, thinking about the ONE BIG SAD AND HORRIBLE THING, I know that I’m writing all this for Dad. I imagine him watching me and reading my words as I write. He’ll be everywhere in this journal, of course, in my mind and in my words and moving among the spaces between the words and behind the words. Sometimes I tell people that he died before I was born, but that isn’t true, and I do have some memories of him. I’ll write of those. I think of him watching from somewhere far away beyond the moon. Hello, Dad. Yes, I think I’m happy now. Yes, I think Mum is, too. Good night.
I slip back into bed. The maddening moon shines down on me. I’ve started the journal at last. Tomorrow I’ll write some more. Now I’ll try to dream of bats and cats and owls.
Bananas, Weirdos, a Beautiful Tree & Boring Heaven
Had breakfast with Mum. Bananas and yogurt and toast with marmalade. DELICIOUS! I told her I’d started my journal. Excellent, she said. I said I might show her some of the pages when I’m ready. Excellent, she said. She said maybe we could make some clay models today. Excellent, I said. Then I came out of the house and climbed into my tree, and here I am.
I love my tree. I’ve been climbing it for a couple of years. I shin up the trunk to a branch that’s just a bit higher than my head. I sit here astride the branch with my back against the trunk. Sometimes I let my legs dangle. Sometimes I sit with my knees raised so that I can rest a book on them. It’s very comfortable, like it was made for me. I’ve been known to sit here for hours at a time, drawing or reading, or just thinking and looking and listening and wondering.
It’s early spring. A pair of blackbirds are building a nest, not too far away from me. The nest’s almost done. I know that because I sometimes climb higher and look down into it. One day soon I’ll look down and see eggs in there. Then I’ll see chicks. Then I’ll see fledglings leaving the nest. Then I’ll see the fledglings become birds that fly into the blue blue yonder. How amazing is that? The blackbirds squawk alarm calls when I climb higher, like they’re yelling, ‘Behave yourself! Squawk! Get back down, girl! Squawk!’ But I don’t think they’re really too troubled by me, not like they would be by a cat, for instance, or by a stranger. Maybe they think I’m some kind of weird bird myself, or some kind of peculiar branch. Maybe if I sat very still for a very long time, they’d build a nest in me: in my lap, or in my hair, or in my hands if I raised them up and cupped them. There is a story about this called St. Kevin and the Blackbird.
LONG AGO, THERE WAS A SAINT CALLED KEVIN WHO LIVED IN IRELAND. ONE DAY, HE WAS PRAYING WITH HIS HANDS STRETCHED TOWARDS HEAVEN (OR WHAT HE THOUGHT WAS HEAVEN), WHEN A BLACKBIRD FLEW DOWN AND LAID AN EGG IN HIS HANDS. ST. KEVIN WAS A GOOD MAN, AND HE DIDN’T WANT TO BREAK THE EGG OR PREVENT IT FROM HATCHING – AND BEING A SAINT, HE ALSO PROBABLY THOUGHT THAT THE EGG WAS A GIFT FROM GOD. SO HE STAYED IN EXACTLY THE SAME POSITION FOR DAY AFTER DAY AND NIGHT AFTER NIGHT, WITH HIS HANDS STRETCHED TOWARDS HEAVEN (OR WHAT HE THOUGHT WAS HEAVEN), UNTIL THE EGG HATCHED RIGHT THERE IN HIS HANDS. IMAGINE THAT, A TINY CHICK MAKING ITS FIRST MOVEMENTS IN YOUR HANDS. IMAGINE THE CLAWS, THE WET WINGS, THE CHEEP CHEEP CHEEP. IMAGINE IT GROWING AS YOU CARED FOR IT. AND IMAGINE IT FLYING AWAY!
Some of the kids from St. Bede’s passed by the end of the street a few moments back. They saw me, but they’ve stopped laughing and calling by now. These days they just roll their eyes and whisper a few words to each other and head onto the gates of their cage. That’s if they do anything at all. They used to call me a witch and a weirdo. They yelled I was a monkey and a crow. They had great fun last year. In the summer they threw daisies and yelled, “Daisies for Miss Crazy!” In the autumn they threw conkers and yelled, “Conkers for Miss Bonkers!” (Which is quite amusing when you think about it, I suppose.)
Now I’m just part of the scenery, like I am for the birds. I am like a lamppost or a tree or a stone. I don’t care. They’re nothing to me. I don’t even look at them. Them! Huh! HUH! Nothing!
This is Falconer Road. It’s a narrow street of terraced houses with little front gardens, each garden with a single tree in it, like this one. The houses are perhaps eighty years old. There are back lanes and garages behind the houses. Beyond the end of the street is Crow Road, where the bigger older houses are. I own a house there, or I will when I’m grown up. It is a bit dilapidated and has extraordinary creatures living in it. Thank you, Grandpa. I raise my eyes to the sky. Thank you, Grandpa. He left it to me in his will. He’s another one that’s dead. We say he’s in Heaven with Dad.
Heaven. I used to think that the idea of Heaven was silly. I used to think of all the people who keep on dying. Heaven must get ridiculously full, I thought. There wouldn’t be room anywhere in the universe for it.
“How big is Heaven?” I said to Mum one day when I was small. I’d just seen a hearse with a coffin in it heading past the end of the street to the massive cemetery on Jesmond Road, the one where Dad’s buried.
“Oh, very very big, I should think,” she said.
I thought of all the cemeteries in all the world. I thought of all the people lying in them. I thought of all the people who have lived and died in the years and years and years of time. I just couldn’t imagine it.
“It must be ginormous,” I said.
“Yes, I suppose so,” she said.
Then, a few weeks later, we were reading an encyclopedia. It said that if you counted all the people who had ever lived in all the history of the world until about fifty years ago, there wouldn’t be as many as the people who are alive today[2].
That surprised us a great deal.
It was a couple of hours later that I realized what that meant.
“So that means,” I said, “that Heaven only needs to be about as big as the earth.”
“Yes,” she said. “I suppose that’s true.”
And we laughed about it, because compared with the size of the universe, earth isn’t very big at all. And even earth isn’t full. There’s room for lots more bodies, just like in Heaven there’s room for lots more souls.
These days, though, I don’t believe any of that. I think that the idea of Heaven is silly for other reasons.
