Before she could talk she knew that spoken words did not always match images.
When Hava was about four, she really knew this. Without doubt. And she chose to ride the waves of what lay beneath.
Because in her experience, nothing was a more accurate guide to truth then the raw, sharp edges that most tried to smooth over with smiles and socially correct actions, like offering a hug when she lost her balloon.
Even as an older child, Hava could never hold onto those things. When she woke up some mornings it felt like her left hand had been closed in a car door. The pain both dull and sharp, spreading from her middle knuckle upward. On those mornings, all she could do was ask for ice.
Much later, she met a woman, a teacher, who showed her why she had grown up speaking in metaphor. Beyond the need to reach through the muck to find the truth.
In the moment, the pain was so great some mornings that she couldn’t hold her cereal bowl as she sat on the carpet watching cartoons. She began to wonder if the glorification of violence was getting to her.
No, she remembered, I woke up with this.
As her torso lengthened and her feet covered more ground, big questions found her. Like a game. Or a study.
She grew to despise knitting. She threw away all of her yarn.
Eventually, Hava came to believe that not every knot was to be feared. And some unravelling was meant to be because the patterns were all wrong.
Some strings were not strings at all.
Every mis-stitch, no matter how long she had been in a meditative trance, could be done again.