Recently, I’ve been making weekly posts with different POV’s for the story of Genesis. These exercises were based on an old class exercise. I thought I would share the original exercise.
Look for Genesis-Part 3 this Sunday!
Before you go and blame me for the fall of mankind, please consider that because of this fall, we are able to rise. Perhaps you personally would like to have been born into that spiritual neutrality known as Eden, but believe me when I say that you would not be half the person you are now if that were so.
Eating that apple gave me a bigger orgasm than Adam’s ever managed in his whole career as a husband. Not just in terms of physical pleasure or pain, though I admit there was plenty of both as well. It wasn’t even just emotional joy and sorrow, either. It was like my spirit sailed past even the greatest happiness I’d ever known in the garden. I saw the happiness of the human race that would follow my path, all their joy and euphoria, and I felt that at once. And when I reached my peak, when I learned the joy of being God itself, I dropped. I dropped into such a misery that even Cain won’t have to endure. I felt all the misery, not just of what to come, but had already passed with poor Lucifer and his troop of angels. There was so much more misery that I dwelled in it far longer than the joy, but even the misery, looking back on it, felt refreshing because I saw it give rise to greater beings, greater people, and I think that’s the closest humans will ever be to becoming God. While I was experiencing it, though, I was the first human to contemplate suicide.
Having released both my extremes, the apple returned me to a sort of spiritual equilibrium. I finished the apple, but I didn’t get the rush again. I knew, through my newly received intuition, that I’d probably never reach those extremes again in my mortal life. I knew I could try, and the effort alone would be enough to fulfill me, let alone the result.
The garden was like some dolt’s daydream after what I’d experienced. I found Adam, and realized for the first time that he was naked, his body toned with gentle labor, tan and at that moment he was perspiring just slightly, making me want to brush back his hair and taste the sweat on his brow. I never noticed his body before, and observing it with curiosity produced such a tingle in my loins just looking at him. I wanted to touch him, to be touched by him. I knew only one way to make him feel the same.
Adam couldn’t believe it. He was outraged at my actions, and so sorrowful for my fall from grace. At least that’s what he thought he felt. He has admitted to me once or twice that these were just the shadows of those emotions.
He thought the noble thing to do would be to eat the fruit. He stared at the azalea bushes while the shadows grew before he came back to me from that spiritual trip. When he looked at me, it felt like he was looking at me for the first time.
I think, all in all, Adam was happy he did it. I know he has his regrets sometimes, but he was God’s favorite. He had more responsibility, and I think he feels that he failed in some way. I think that God knew we were going to eat these apples from the start, or else why put them there? Adam always says I’m a woman who doesn’t understand intellectual matters, and I remind him I was the first one to become intellectual, as well as the one who gave it to him, and then we start fighting, so I’ve kept my opinions to myself in recent years.
Needless to say, when Adam came to, we were about to have sex (at the time we didn’t know there was a word for it) when we felt God coming. We each exchanged a nervous glance. We were naked and about to do something our intuition said was animal, and we didn’t want to be seen like that. We lunged for the bushes. While we were hiding, I started sewing some fig leaves together, so we might be presentable when we met with God. That’s how cloths were invented, so whatever you want to blame me for, you could at least thank me for that. Adam at least looked semi-dignified, in the leaf half-tunic I stitched together for him, when he came before God.
God was understanding about it, and very patient. At first, Adam almost died in the purity of His presence. Before, with our dull senses, emotion, and spirituality, He could come before us, but now our race is too sensitive. God masked his presence, called me out of hiding, and by that time I had made what would be called a dress, and he asked both me and my husband what we had done. He was calm, so we both felt inclined to tell him the truth of what happened. When he asked us why we had eaten the apple in the first place, Adam said, “Eve did it, and you said we were supposed to share our lives together…” God stopped him there, and asked me why I had done it.
“I was curious.”
God reminded me that I knew I would die, so why did I give into such curiosity. I told him that, for some reason, it felt right. The serpent was just a story Adam told our children, so they wouldn’t get snake bites or despise me.
God let out a sigh that made my heart break, and explained that we were going to die (which we knew), and that we could stay in the Garden of Eden, if we wanted, but that, because of our new knowledge and intellect, and the depth of our emotion, we would never find peace here. In short, he told us we’d be bored.
We tried to stay, of course, but the monotonous routine became worse than that new hell we’d heard about. When we announced our decision to leave, God (who wouldn’t see us anymore) sent us an angel who gave us some things to make a start with.
The struggle and the toil, the failure and the success, helped to cultivate ourselves as much as the land we settled on. I think it will be awhile before anyone reaches the depths and height of human existence, as Adam and I did by chance when we took that bite. There was far more suffering than joy, but even those rare seconds of joy brought me more pleasure than all the time in Eden brought before our jump, which is what my husband and I took to calling the “eating of the apple.” Eating an apple is mundane—what we did was world altering.
Here’s what you can blame me for: I don’t regret it. Not even for a second. I knew death, yes, and I know death even better today. I had to bury my child, after the unbelievable pain of bringing him into this world. My other child, Abel’s murderer, has the renown of being the first of his kind, to be despised by humanity to come as much as I’m sure I’ll be. So don’t preach to me of pain and death, because I know both well. I was the first to endure the pain of child birth, and one of the first to witness murder, with relation to my own children no less. I’ve gotten to know sorrows that were beyond my contemplation before that jump, so don’t preach to me about damnation. It’s the price of living, and you’re a fool to give that up.