SEVEN

Once upon a time there was seven, a number unlike any other.

We have been following the story of the peculiar species I am calling homo explorans, the exploring human. We got to know them a bit better a couple of months ago when we visited their hall of fame; then most recently we considered a key aspect of their journey, when life leads into the Unknown as symbolised by the sea.

A question that arose earlier was: where do they belong, these ‘Explorers of the Unknown, Natives of the Beyond’? As we saw, they live stretched between the Known and Unknown, between what is seen and what is not. They live suspended between two worlds that meet in their bodies, creating a tension that manifests as feeling completely at home and yet always homesick. A tension of ‘already’ and ‘not yet’. A tension between settled and restless, native and foreign, orphan and heir. Where do they belong, then? What is their home? Yes, in the realm of the Unseen, where navigation ceases and instruments cannot measure nor follow. But how, then, do they live, here in the Seen? How do they survive? If they are made for water, how do they live on land?

The answer is, every seven days they go home. Their home is not a place, it is a space-time, and it comes to them. The answer is a mystery that lies buried in an ancient narrative frequently misunderstood and dismissed.

The well-known seven days of the book of Genesis can, in a sense, be summarised like this:*

And there was evening and morning, the first day.

And there was evening and morning, the second day.

And there was evening and morning, the third day.

And there was evening and morning, the fourth day.

And there was evening and morning, the fifth day.

And there was evening and morning, the sixth day.

Then comes the seventh day, and the poetic device of ‘evening and morning’ is gone. And there was no evening, and no morning, the seventh day. In fact, its description is different all together.

Each of the six days are bracketed by ‘evening and morning’. The poetic force of ‘evening and morning’ is a solid structure that surrounds them, that holds each day’s activity in place; regular and predictable, a Swiss watch.

Six days flow in a solid rhythm almost lulling its reader into a sweet slumber, when, suddenly, the train stops, the clickety-clack ceases, and your ears perk up. What is happening? Where are we? Why did we stop? Where is the ‘evening and morning’? What are we to make of what follows?

The narrator uses linguistic devices at his disposal to capture our attention as the reader, and he does. Now that he has our full attention, he can begin to reveal the beauty that lies deep in the roots of the story that, on the surface, is about a mere few days.

Like one of those tests in which you need to pick out the object that does not belong, so the seventh day does not belong in the week – it is the foreign object, the different one.

Apple – pear – banana – flamingo.

At its fundament day seven is something entirely different than the others. This is the mystery the narrator is beginning to reveal to us.

Apple-apple-apple-apple-apple-apple-flamingo.

Apple-apple-apple-apple-apple-apple-flamingo.

Not even in the same category. Something entirely different.

Everything ‘goes in a circle’: the day, the week, the month, the year. At its core this reality is cyclical and it is painted in six different shades, six days. So what is painted on the seventh? Another reality.

Six days have clear boundaries, borders; the seventh has none.

Six days contain a flurry of activity; the seventh contains none.

Six days are the Known, the seventh is the Unknown.

Six days are the Bound, the seventh is the Boundless.

The Boundless in the Bound, one reality interpolated into another. It is the Unknown interpolated into the Known, the Unseen regularly strung on an endless string of the Seen.

The weekly encounter with the Boundless offers an opportunity to familiarize us with a reality that is at first glance, entirely foreign to us. However at second glance, we realise it is fundamentally the natural habitat of those who are homo explorans. The weekly cycle allows the Explorers and whoever else wishes, to dip their toes into it, slowly, and over time, come to wade in its waters, unafraid, strong, courageous. Even if it takes them places beyond their expectations, and it does. Because that’s what the Boundless does. It grows us beyond. Beyond our small stories, beyond our narrow alleys and crowded highways. Beyond our fears, our wounds, into something we never could have dreamt.

That is the true meaning and purpose of the seventh day. The Hebrew word for day seven is shabbat. Shabbat means ‘to cease’. Shabbat is the complete cessation of one reality. Shabbat is the opportunity to allow for another reality, one that is fuller, greater, boundless and exceeding our wildest imaginings, to have its place in our being. This is how homo explorans survives. This is where homo explorans belongs. It is not a place, it is a reality.

Six days are one reality, day seven is another. Day and night, oil and water. These are the two worlds that meet in each Explorer, this is the source of the inherent tension they hold in their bodies and carry throughout their lives. They meet the challenges of their way of life by intentionally engaging with day seven, by coming home. It’s coming into their home port between voyages on high and perilous seas. It fills their tank; it refreshes and renews. It heals them of the bruises and injuries they sustain. It eases the tension that is inextricable from their way of being.

What is seven?

It is where your native language is spoken on the streets.

It is eating the foods you loved as a child.

It is jumping off a boat into the big blue.

It is cycling in country lanes with hands outstretched, the breeze caressing your smiling face.

It is walking through your door and taking off your shoes, or bra, and slipping into whatever feels more comfortable.

It is lying in your nautical cradle as gentle waves rock you to sleep.

It is balm on a wound.

It is someone making you soup when you are confined to your bed.

It is entering a warm space after pouring rain has soaked through to your skin.

It is placing that piece of the puzzle that fits.

It is lying in the arms of the one you love.

It is home.

Seven is everything you imagine the best of life to be.

The secret they all share is this: it is only when one regularly comes home, that one can then sail the high seas with all the strength, skill and stamina required. The beauty of it is that one can always come home. Seven is available in Mumbai, Melbourne, and Montevideo, it is accessible whether you are 8, 18 or 80 years old. This is true whether you regularly come into port, have not been in years, or perhaps have never been at all. There are no restrictions, and every seven days the opportunity is there, afresh.

 One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. Every seventh day you will find all the Explorer ships with anchors down in their home port. Even if it be for a day, which it is. But heaven knows, for now, that is more than enough.

 * Gen. 1:3,6,13,19,23,31; 2:2-3.

(c) Belinda É. Samari

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