All These Little Things
“Thus the little minutes,
Humble though they be,
Make the mighty ages
Of eternity.”
This letter is listening to this passenger song and Gwen Stefani’s rich girl.
A few days ago, I started this letter with an experience I had in junior school (ISL), but I lost that draft. It was supposed to lead me to religion, but I've since decided to write you something else.
I'll tell the story, anyway.
It was 2007, and the Davinci code was still the book everyone was reading. The sort of book that introduced everyone to literature (if you're not counting Sidney Sheldon). I'm not sure if my dad had a copy, but I remember telling my older sister's friend who lived with us at the time that I wanted to read it. A friend had it, and she spoke of how it told the real story of Christianity. My sister's friend said not to. She said, “It's the kind of thing that makes Christians backslide,” and that was it. I'm not sure if it's correct to say she was very religious, but she was/is like my sister — a goodie-two-shoe Bible society club member. I wasn't as afraid of backsliding as I was of disobeying her (the rebel in me was still way beneath the surface) and in turn, triggering my parent's discipline (because obviously, she would've reported). So I decided not to.
It's an experience that's stayed with me for many reasons. Importantly, it marks the beginning of [my] religious skepticism (to some extent. I really should write that religion-themed letter to you.) It's funny how things like this can stay with us even when they're seemingly inconsequential. I remember where she stood in the room I shared with my older sister and grandmother, the tired look on her face, and that we both still had on our green uniforms.
Several years ago, still in junior school, I saw a movie on African Magic that sparked my interest in reincarnation. I'm not sure if the movie was titled Akudaya, but at some point in the movie, the word came up and I asked my uncle Seyi, what the word meant. After he told my older siblings and I that it was a kind of reincarnation where a dead person went to another city and started a new life, we started to call my uncle, Akudaya. The only scene I remember from the movie is how the Akudaya's legs hung on the wall as he slept — which I learned was a sign that marked Akudaya people: the odd ways in which they slept. It was a small, almost insignificant event/scene that would have disappeared in memory lane if It didn't leave an impression on me. In recent times, three short stories almost capture my interest and obsession with Akudaya and reincarnation: After the Birds, What Happens on Sunday and not quite recent but still as poignant, In Hues of Several Dreams.
It's quite amazing how something so small can become something so big. Be it memories, or time, or acts of protests or kindness or ideas, or money (speaking of, I've spent all of the past few days researching on the best kinds of investments: stocks, real estate or bonds) they can all become larger than our imaginations or experiences, transforming into big, tangible things.
On the flip side, I remember that my grandmother used to warn my siblings and me that if we had some sort of injury or pain in our bodies, we shouldn't hide it for fear of getting caned e.g “What were you doing that made you get this injury?” She encouraged us to speak up unless such injuries would grow and grow until they became something untreatable or requiring surgeries. It's the same with how in a relationship, nursing a small grievance against your partner can lead to loathing and then toxicity, if you don't open up and speak about it.
I'm also reminded of the parable of the talents which has been interpreted as a metaphor for using your skills (in spite of how little they might seem) for the greater good.
Last night, binge-reading everything brainpickings had curated on Vincent Van Gogh after the midweek pick-me-up, I stumbled on this quote on his views on talking vs doing:
"For the great doesn’t happen through impulse alone, and is a succession of little things that are brought together."
Julia Carney's poem, little drops of water, little grains of sand, make a mighty ocean and the pleasant land illustrates the point as much as Gelett Burgess' little scraps of paper, little crumbs of food, make a room untidy, everywhere they're strewed.
Interestingly, this poem or nursery rhyme by Julia that everyone recites was an impromptu poem she created in a phonography class in 1945.
The bottom line is that whether it's the universe, or Allah, or yourself, or Jesus, sometimes stop and say a little thank you for the little things because they make up the big things and are as important as the big things.
Ope's Reads.
This was a useful read. It essentially says that there's nothing wrong with being average. [You hate to see it.] I listened to this podcast on religion. It was a Muslim and Christian talking about how the most powerful unity happens in diversity. Recommended if you paid attention to the Maraji brouhaha, two weeks ago. I know you people don't rate Slumflower, but she has a good point when she says that our flaws and "messes" can make us close to our friends and family. And in this age of envy, here's how to look happy when everyone else is.
Why don't people tell you how brilliant aging can be? Find out here. Would you sacrifice your life for a million people? A billion maybe? Whatever your answer is, read this.