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Caitlin David : The Next Cassiopeia

Last night, I was in a fishing boat drifting under the constellations. The water rippled around the shimmering moon, whispering icy secrets. My hands were cold and tattered and stiff and feeling somewhat empty when suddenly my fishing pole trembled.

Not a lot, but a little.

And then that little grew into greater and more deafening and shaking until it was a lot. You see, I had caught a star in the reflection of the sky. I had hooked a luminous glowing light.

Not just any star, mind you - a star bird.

If she had been born a fruit she would be a star fruit - unknown and unusual, but sweet. If she were captured into just one colour, she would be a deep greenish-blue with a hint of grey, like the sea before a storm or the heart of a misty wood. She would be a bird, flying and flittering around in the sky like some unknown flicker of dance from a storybook.

Who is this star? I asked. And she told me her name, and about her life here in this world before gliding back into the darkness. Her perspective is so fresh and beautiful I just sat back under the moon and breathed and listened, letting her do the talking.

She is Caitlin Noelle David, also known as Bird. She is seventeen. She dreams. She is in love with her Creator. She writes.

"I want to be remembered for my writing flowing out of love," she said. "I love nature, and I write. I love words, and I write. I love God, and I write. It's a natural progression from love to writing. My faith is a young tree. It's lived and grown a few years, it doesn't whip around in the wind anymore - but it's not quite mature enough to show fruit, to scatter seeds (or at least if it is I'm not seeing them). I fail, a lot. I trust God, a lot. I question, a lot. It means a lot to me that I can question God - question the Bible - and I don't have to be afraid. He has the answers - if I dig for them I will find them. I fear I get too complacent. I fear I'm lazy. But I know that He will work that out - that I will obey Him whatever He says and He'll get to that when it's the right time.

"I struggle with some of my limitations - my blindness, my asthma, my struggle to focus - my emotions, because it's very hard for me to control my emotions - but I trust God. I am willing to wait and make mistakes and try again and NEVER GIVE UP because I know He is sovereign - He is good - He has claimed me as his own - and He will never let me go. He is my confidence."

Caitlin loves mountains, blue, summer, and her family. Her mother, Susan, could be likened to a butterfly - colourful and vibrant. She likes to sew things like pillows, duvet covers, and chair covers for interior design. Caitlin's younger sister, Colleen, could also be likened to a flittering little faerie - she is positively fascinated with the splendor and grace of ballet. Right now, Colleen is very excited about receiving her first pointe shoes. Their younger brother Caitlin fondly describes as "outgoing, cheerful, takes charge and gets things done, very dedicated to God and to his family". He is passionate about Legos and robotics. Their father, James, is an introspective thinker and lover of music. "My dad's family is from Lebanon, so we make lots of the Arabic foods like cabbage rolls and kibbeh - with lamb and rice and lemon juice and mint and yoghurt and pita bread. YUM," she laughed. She described her lovely grandmother, Tita, on her dad's side, and how she makes spinach pies, Caitlin's favourite food. "...the spinach pies are only made at Tita's house - warm and moist with chewy, thick dough and lemony spinach. They're awesome hot or cold - and they remind me of little hands pound, pound, pounding the dough, roll, roll, rolling it out - wrinkled hands over mine, giggles and touching noses and hugs and kisses. Spinach pies speak love to me."

Words have been flowing from Caitlin's pen, mouth, and through her mind since she was a little girl. Sometimes, she would spend hours telling stories to her younger sister Colleen. "I have lots of half-started notebooks, written in a sloppy, childish hand, full of big words and dreams and a vague sense that something is right with the world." She smiled.

The beauty of words and language fascinates her down to the core. "I love the words - a single word can inspire a story, a song - a string of them together makes a melody - the cadence of words catches me," she said, eyes glittering. "It's a dance, a choreography, a step-here, and back, and here, and back, and spinning in the rain. I have free rein to step behind someone else's eyes, call goodness good and evil bad, say something important and say it well - so that those with eyes see it, and those without never know it's there. I love to relate, to share, to experience, and writing helps me explore love, to reach out my soul to the world. Writing allows me to be open without being awkward."

Not only does she scribble stories, poems, and dreams, but she also writes music. Caitlin loves music dearly and plays the piano. "I also write songs - my melodies are steadily improving. I tend to write similarly to what I hear - so some of my songs hint of others' songs... but I am maturing, growing past that," she said. "I've played since I was four, took a year off at one point when we couldn't find a good teacher. I play in our worship band at youth group," she related excitedly, "and I'm working on Chopin's prelude in F# minor - it sounds amazing, but my hands get so sore - this song is really a stretch for me. A good stretch." When writing prose or poetry, Caitlin sometimes likes to listen to Yael Naim, Britt Nicole, Oren Lavie, Jon Foreman, Deas Vail, Skillet, Anberlin, Attaboy, Mat Kearney, or Switchfoot. Other times, she says, her mind is just too full to handle music.

Caitlin mind is like her nickname - a bird. It flies and dreams and soars. Sometimes, it explores; other times it withdraws into warmth and shelter to rest. When asked what kinds of things she enjoys reflecting on, musing about, and pondering, she smiled and told me, "nature - rain, trees, leaves, ocean - people, society, sin... I like to think about communication, what makes it work and what doesn't, why certain people relate in certain ways, etc. I like to muse about stories I've read, imagine myself in the heroine's place (or make up a handy side character to bolster the hero/heroine)..."

Speaking of stories . . .  I said. Her shining blue eyes twinkled and she continued, "I read almost anything -- sci-fi, fantasy, historical fiction are among the favorites... George MacDonald is number one. Undisputedly. And in a jumble behind him come Gerald Morris, G. K. Chesterton, C. S. Lewis, Gene Stratton-Porter, Jane Austen, The Bronte sisters, Jules Feiffer, and many, many others."

When asked about her own work, Caitlin described her piece, "The Quiet One" that she had been writing about and dreaming about recently. "The inspiration came from a variety of things - one, my blog. I started a blog a while back called Earthly Eyrie - basically a place, a nest, where I could come and think and dream and be separate from reality, in order to inspect reality. The nest in this story is basically that idea.

"Second, I'm very nearsighted - real life is blurry to me without glasses or contacts. That helped me refine the idea of real life being dreams. And third, I got this image of a Pharisee, as Jesus describes, a whitewashed tomb - pretty on the outside, filthy and dead within - but slightly changed. I see people as whitewashed tombs with barely beating hearts - if I press my ear close to the cold marble I can hear the heartbeat - and even though I can't melt the stone, put flesh on cold bones, bring the heart warmth and life -MY GOD CAN.

"Finally, my experiences over the last couple of years, with my family, with loneliness, with rejection have also poured into this -- God's grace has allowed me to heal and remember, and see him better through that memory, and this is a part of my sharing that testimony."

I met a star. She told me her story and shared part of her magnum opus. And now, I share it with you.

I. The Darkness.

She panted as she ran, tripping over crafty branches, glaring rocks - glancing back over her shoulder, crunching, crushing on. Her hair hung in tattered tangles, wet with tears and rain and fear.

On she ran.

The wind whipped through the trees - inspired the leafy chorus - and died.

She stopped, suddenly silent, then tiptoed on, picking her way carefully.

::: Careful, can't let them hear you.

Peering back once more - then looking ahead - she quickly disappeared, burrowing through a small tunnel.

::: Trickling water - cool stones - darkness, peaceful darkness.

She stood in the center of a small, dark cave, wiping the dirt off her clothes- smudging the mud on her cheeks as she rubbed her wary eyes - and plodded on.

::: Back! Back -- farther, onward! No light --

but the path is straight. One foot--now the other. One foot--

She paused, breathed a shaking, sobbing sigh, and went on.

::: Here! Here the stairs are--up one, up other, up one, keep going--

Sunlight, softened by the interlaced leaves overhead, peeked at her through little waving windows--dancing and whirling.

::: Open little windows--and close them fast! Mustn't let the sun in too far.

She crawled into the nest--a motley pile of interlacing branches, brambles, grasses, and ferns--scattered with fluffy pillows, feathers, blankets, and books. Books with tattered pages--dog-eared covers--much loved.

::: And much loving.

Exhausted, she flopped down, snuggled into the blankets. Warmth trickled down through the little leaf-windows--bathing her in rippled lights.

She sighed and rolled over--her fists hugged her sides--square hands, with thin fingers. Curling into a ball, she took a deep, shuddering breath--and sighed, long, smooth, and peaceful.

Slowly, gradually, her eyelids closed.

::: Pleasant, darkness can be.

II. The Dream.

She blinked painfully at the blurry, white walls and the cold, fuzzy faces--dizzy, fidgety.

::: Where am I? Why am I here?

Small room with shallow ceiling glowered over her--glaring, piercing lights--she stared in confusion at the pebbledy ceiling.

::: Maybe someone had a tantrum--tore their homework to bits, threw it on the ceiling--and it stuck..

A giggle rippled through the circles of color--always moving, moving. She tried so hard to focus her trembling eyes, concentrate--but the faces blurred. They were white, like tombs.

::: Sometimes pale, wan smiles peeked out, roledl the stone-doors from their caves--but the ground shivered, the stones rolled back, back across the doors--marble slabs, immovable. Like ice.

She watched blue squiggles migrate across a white board--as a fuzzy mountain emitted fuzzy sounds, bouncy sounds, sounds that wiggled and whined and struggled to get out, no matter how hard she tried to hold them--

"Yet," he boomed, "you must!" looming over her head, dark and angry.

She slumped; she sighed; she closed her eyes, and she shouldered her thoughts, her cross, again, trudging mentally on through swimming circles.

But wait--a living soul--for one second--came into focus--

::: Hello?

Breathing, growing. Alive.

::: Will you come out?

But the stone door slammed shut behind his eyes --she winced--

::: You knew he would turn away. Recoil in disgust. As if love were disgusting.

How do I know? Maybe it is, right now. It hasn't had a chance to grow yet.

::: Maybe. I'm so tired. Let me sleep.

And darkness fell.

 

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