After the Rupture
In the beginning we knew only beauty and a single focus.
We thought as one, moved as one, and beheld our new world
through the same perfect eyes.
Those early days unfolded according to plan.
No map was needed. No parents to lead the way.
We had only The Voice in our heads,
telling us we were loved and blessed.
And, oh yes, there was The Rule.
We were fine for a while—with no concept of time
or awareness of the free will we possessed.
We only knew that with each miraculous breath
there was a thought, and with each thought came longing.
Soon the Rule began to make us itch and feel a hunger.
Our bellies began to wake us. And though we tried—
holding our breath, closing our eyes and ears, staying silent—
we began to believe we were separate from The Voice.
That’s when I chose to step away—
just for a breath or two. My legs long and powerful,
my back straight and strong, my eyes seeing new details,
my ears hearing voices. My mind expanding with ideas,
my lungs filling with life, the idea of freedom dawning.
That’s when I reached up and picked the shiny red fruit.
Then with the sound of thunder and a darkening sky,
I was stricken by fear. I turned and there he was, my companion,
reaching for the prize, which of course I gave to him.
But his face revealed something I didn’t recognize.
He called it “mine” and turned his back to me,
curling around our prize. “It’s ours!” I shouted over the noise.
There I sat, stunned by a world, a man, I did not know.
This is what you see here—the story of our rupture—
a canyon had opened between us. Our backs to each other.
Our innocence and our well being fallen away.
For a long time, we suffered the darkness as separate beings.
So this is the story people tell about us. But there is so much more—
how we healed, forgave, survived the pain of knowing too much
and of not knowing enough—the rest of our story is about
how we were transformed by human connection.
We learned the words for things—we learned trust and discernment
and, yes, forgiveness. And we taught these to
our children and grandchildren and they to theirs.
Maybe these words are part of your story, too.
And after all this, if you still feel I am unreliable, I’m used to that.
I am no stranger to judgement and blame—they’re part of my story.
After all this, if you decide you cannot believe me,
ask Adam. He knows the truth.