A note to the reader

Is a person a body?
Is a person a soul?
Is each part a part
of a greater whole?

Maybe we’re neither,
it’s hard to be sure.
Maybe we’re both.
And maybe we’re more.

Chapter 1: A fit of fidgets every Sunday

The fidgets started first with Clara Lightbody.

On this Sunday evening, just like every Sunday evening, the feeling began like a flock of butterflies in her belly and finished with her toes twitching and tapping.

When the belly butterfly flutterby was done, Clara opened her eyes, smiled, and watched the three guests at her big maple table finish their own fidgets. She waited, excited to learn who they were this week.

It was Sunday afternoon on the Island of Slippery Souls, and Sunday afternoon was the time souls left one body and entered another.

Chapter 2: A home to every kind of person

Imagine an island so far away you think it only exists in the dreams of the people you dream of. It’s a place ancient and distant and somehow familiar, with its its swelling green meadows, its dolphin-filled sea, and its tufts of puffed clouds scuffing by in the sky.

This is the Island of Slippery Souls, and it is a home to every kind of body.

There is a king and a queen. There are knights and nobility. Cats in the night and dogs with agility. Makers of crepes and tenders of grapes. Carpenters, caulkers, and high-wire walkers. Fishermen and fisherwomen, wisher men and washerwomen. Bank tellers and fortune-tellers. Melancholy babies (who are sad) and giddy babies (who are glad) and poopy babies (who stink real bad).

This is the Island of Slippery Souls, and it is a home to every kind of soul.

There are innocent souls and mischievous souls. Everyday souls, heroic souls, romantic souls, and stoic souls. Souls who like to break things, souls who like to make things, and souls who like to take and shake things. Some souls are magic. Some souls hold tight. Some souls are tragic. And some filled with light.

On the Island of Slippery Souls, there is room in a body for any kind of soul. And every body welcomes every kind of soul many times over. Because on the Island of Slippery Souls, every Sunday souls go on a walkabout. Every Sunday, bodies twitch, then souls switch. A body might be eating or napping or hoeing in the garden, when suddenly it feels a squirming, a fidget, a fit and . . . OUT goes one soul and IN comes another.

All across the island, bodies and souls were a joyful jumble, and life bumbled happily along.

For a while.

Chapter 3: Ellie’s surprising soul

Clara clapped her hands. “Well, tell me. Tell me! Who did you get? Son?”

“A regular old accountant this week, Mom.” Ramon Lightbody looked intensely at his beans and began to count them.

“Why yes you did,” she said. “You can learn a lot from everyday souls. How about you, Letitia?”

Clara’s daughter-in-law paused a moment, holding her spoon in the air. “A doctor!” She turned to her mother-in-law. “Tell me, Clara, are you feeling well? Stick out your tongue.”

“Ha! Put that spoon away. I’m quite well indeed!” Clara flexed her thin biceps. “I am a wandering monk.” She got up to leave.

Letitia laughed and told her to at least save her wandering for after supper. She turned to her daughter, “And how about you, Ellie-girl?”

The nine-year-old girl looked dazed.

“Sweetie?” said Ramon, holding up his hand. “Everything alright? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Her voice was a whisper. “I’m the king.”

“Ah,” said Clara. “Your first! Well welcome back, your majesty.”

“Be a good host to the king this week,” said Letitia.

“As must we all to all!” said Clara. “Now, how about we enjoy the rest of our beans and greens and rutabaga stew and sweet potato chicken potpie while our bodies and souls get to know each other?”

“A toast,” called Ramon, raising his glass of cool strawberry lemonade.

The others raised their lemonades.

“To flesh memories and soul stories, and flesh stories and soul memories.”

Chapter 4: What about dung beetles?

One sunny Sunday afternoon several weeks later, Clara Lightbody crab-walked her way slowly along a row of rutabaga plants, sliding her nimble, weathered fingers gently up and down the tender vines. Now and then, she’d flick an aphid into the breeze or pause to pat-pat the soft soil.

Ellie watched her. “Your fingers are moving fast, yet you’re precise with the soil, gentle with the insects, and quick with the weeds.”

“Indeed,” said Clara. “There’s a weaver in me this time. These creative souls do suit the gardening. How about you, Darling?”

“A detective!” said Ellie.

Clara squinted at her and smiled. “Ah. Of course. You’re very observant.”

Clara turned back to her zucchinis.

A dung beetle lumbered out from under a leaf, patiently pushing a ball of poo. Clara picked up the beetle, held it in her palm, and blew on it till the awkward little fellow took flight.

Ellie watched the beetle disappear out over the pasture. “Why did you do that?”

“I thought he might like to go exploring,” said Clara.

“Like a soul might.” Ellie looked off toward where the beetle had flown. “What about them?”

“Hmm?” said Clara.

“Do they have souls? I never felt a dung beetle soul in my body.”

“Well, it’s only people who have souls, Sweetie.”

Ellie frowned. “Not bugs?”

“Not bugs. Not trees or clouds or grass. Not any of the animals. Just like the people have a king, we are all kings over the fish and the fowl and the cattle.”

“And bugs.”

“That’s right,” said Clara.

“But it still doesn’t make sense,” said Ellie. “Maybe nobody ever told the bugs it was okay if their souls came in. Do you think it would work?”

“That’s a very detective kind of question,” said Clara. She thought a moment. “That would be a sight, wouldn’t it? Do you think you’d want to suddenly start pushing around giant poo balls?”

They both laughed.

Ellie didn’t get to try.

Just then her mother called her into dinner. After dinner, a very strange thing happened to her. And that very strange thing caused many other strange things to happen.

Continue reading part 2.