I wrote a piece recently reflecting on the new Wonder Woman movie and reflected that we don’t often tell heroic stories about conversations, but that we needed to. That we need to talk about the art of humanity, embedding grace, love, justice and forgiveness into those stories that make myth the actions of our people.
So, here’s a small tale that makes a start.
Dragon and the Mango Juice Chalice
In the tropics, in a mountain, that used to purge lava, lived a dragon. With scales the colour of fire.
In the wet season the dragon stayed put. No fun in starting a blaze that the rain could put out.
But in the dry season, the dragon’s anger got the better of it.
And Dragon would roar down death on the towns below.
In the tropics, in a valley that was once full of life, lived a little human.
At eight this little human should have been in school, should have been surrounded by love, and boiled eggs for breakfast, and playtime with friends, and too-tightly-plaited braids.
Instead, this little human was sifting through the ruins of once was home, now was lost.
Around little human the survivors of Dragon’s latest death purge were rising up.
Angry voices, scared voices, tired voices, melding into one single, violent mob poised to strike.
Little human was unconvinced by the idea of violence meeting violence. Little human thought back to when the wild red swirls of anger had taken over their body, most often because slightly bigger siblings had thwarted crayon colour selection or mango juice desires. Crayons were broken. Mango juice spilt. No one got what they wanted. Things only got worse.
Little human looked around and found the frightened faces of other little humans. Veterans of crayon wars past they too knew that a different way was needed. They sat down and asked themselves all sorts of questions, like “how could Dragon’s fire be put to better use?” and “when we get angry, what makes us calm down?” and “why do you think Dragon is cross?” and “can I please have some mango juice now?” By the end of the day they had a plan (and a cup each of mango juice).
The little humans packed a couple of bananas picked from trees still standing, dug up a store of macadamia nuts, took their drinking cups, and set off to Dragon Mountain.
The wee band was a scatter of shaking knees and pounding hearts as they made their way. But still, one footstep followed another followed another followed another until they stood at the edge of Dragon Mountain.
They gathered charred tree limbs to make a table. And more to make chairs. They fashioned Dragon a chalice from a worn out old stone. They carefully set out 14 cups of mango juice, 13 little human sized, and one Dragon sized. And they formed a human pyramid. The little human at the top peered over the edge of the mountain rim and called out to Dragon, “Would you like some mango juice Dragon?”
No one had ever asked Dragon if it would like mango juice before.
Let’s be clear, no one had ever come and stuck their head over the rim of mountain before. Fire-breathing Dragons don’t usually get asked to play or talk.
The angry red swirls that licked at Dragon’s brain were edged with blue as Dragon came down the hill.
No one had ever made a place for Dragon at a table before.
And, oh, the sublime joy of mango juice. Velvet on the tongue. Explosions of flavour bringing happy burbles to Dragon. Some of it escaped the stone cup, dribbling over scales, but Dragon found its tongue was perfectly fashioned to lick it up.
Sitting and sipping Dragon felt a communion with the little humans that was uncommon. It was a bluey-greeny-silvery feeling. Dragon really only knew the spikey singular angry reds.
The little humans wondered out loud with Dragon about bluey-green-silvery feelings. And they asked Dragon whether, when Dragon felt the angry reds lick up its legs and ignite its wings, well, they wondered whether Dragon could bring to mind the bluey-greeny-silvery feeling instead?
When the last drop of mango juice was gone, the little humans thanked Dragon for sitting in circle with them. They said they had to get back to once-was-home. But that they would come again.
No-one had ever said they would come again.
(To be fair, no-one had ever said they would come again because generally Dragon had incinerated them or they were hiding in a shelter under ground too scared too come out).
Days passed. Dragon still woke to the angry reds, and lit up to the sky with a roar and a gnash. But each time Dragon saw the charred table and chairs and the Mango Juice Chalice the bluey-greeny-silvery feelings would flutter at the edges of the angry reds. And Dragon would feel less certain about fire-filled horror as a way of life.
The day came when little human called out from the mountain rim again “would you like some Mango Juice Dragon?”
On this day, in this circle, as the bluey-greeny-silvery feeling swirled, the little humans told Dragon how the pinkie-purplie-brownie feelings of sadness were traveling with them on their journey of grief, because Dragon’s angry reds had killed their families.
Dragon didn’t know what to do with those colours. He stormed to the sky as the angry reds flashed through his nose.
The little humans were terrified. But they stayed at the table and sipped at their mango juice and chose to let the bluey-greeny-silvery feelings sustain them.
Dragon saw them, shaking slightly, but still at the table. And he heard on the wind “come back Dragon, come back to the table.”
No-one had ever asked Dragon to come back to the table before.
The angry red swirls mixed with aqua-marinie spirals as Dragon thought regretfully about how scared the little humans were, and how much hurt, death and destruction Dragon had caused.
“Come back Dragon, come back to the table” said the little humans.
Hard as it was, Dragon came back. Landing with a sigh, Dragon looked round the table at the little humans. A rainbow hued tear rolled from Dragon’s eye. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” said Dragon as another rainbow tear fell to the ground. “All I’ve ever known is the angry red swirls.”
Dragon shifted a paw on the ground, “But I like the bluey-greeny-silvery feels, and, oh, mango juice, I loooove mango juice.”
Little human, who once had braids that were too tight, looked at Dragon with a thoughtful face. “You know,” said little human, “the mango juice is even better with just a few grains of sugar mixed in. But, there’s no one left to set fire to the sugar cane at harvest time. Maybe you could channel your angry red swirls to the cane fields instead?”
Dragon had never been asked to do something before. A flutter of gold landed inside.
And now, during the dry season, Dragon tends the sugar cane fields. Up, up high in the sky, Dragon’s new rainbow scales glint in the sun. Here a flash of a bluey-greeny-silvery wing. There a flash of acqua-marine legs. Then a swoop of a pinkie-purple-brownie tail sweeps across the horizon. And most brilliant of all, the goldie scales of Dragon’s chest. And at eleven o’clock each day Dragon sits with one of the now grown humans, toasting with mango juice the act of meeting violence with compassion and a deep, aching, angry hunger with a chalice of kindness.
Stardust Becoming 