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Why I Write
When I write, I draw on my experiences as a woman with a painful past, a rapturous wife and mother, a world traveler, and a spiritualist. For me, writing is an art form. Like an artist, the work becomes more than I imagined it would be. When I set out to write a story with a particular idea or character in mind, words I cannot claim as my own flow from a magical and mysterious place through me and onto paper. The work takes on a life of its own; it is living art. The process fascinates me, satiates me, and makes my life more meaningful.
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15 For 15 Entries ~ January 2011 #716595 added January 27, 2011 at 8:33am
Restrictions: None
Jan 26 Face
Juno hit the dented chisel with swift, assertive taps of the hand-hewn mallet. Made of smooth Jatoba wood, it'd been hefted by one hand in each of countless generations before him. It was an honor to use it, and Juno concentrated so each chip left just the mark he intended. His bust was almost complete. It didn't look exactly like him, but that wasn't the goal. During the long year he'd sculpted it, he'd listened to the Elder, Marcopo, council the villagers.
Tonight, Marcopo held audience to a young woman, nearing the end of her confinement and ripe with child. She was terrified of the impending delivery, frightened of the prospect of raising a tribe member. Her husband was eight months deceased.
As Juno listened to Marcopo advise, the gentle cadence of his voice lifted on the air as silky and calming as candle smoke, his mallet paused. Glancing right, he beheld Marcopo's bust on the table next to his. While his bust was raw wood, being formed into art, Marcopo's bust was nearly covered with shapes and designs in brilliant colored paint. Every centimeter, almost, added to its decoration: individually beautiful while contributing to the stunning and intricate grand design.
The woman rose, leaned close the Marcopo and kissed his cheek in thanks. Quietly, she exited the hut.
Marcopo then rose, with the pain in his joints evident in his face, and shuffled over to Juno. He took up a brush, dipped it into a jar of ruby red paint, and filled in the last remaining bare centimeter of his bust.
"Is it finished?" asked Juno.
"Possibly."
Marcopo looked over at Juno's work. "And look here," he said with pride, "your training seems near complete as well." He began to cough, from deep in his chest. When the fit passed, Juno spoke.
"Teacher, you have lived your life in great service to our people. I'm so proud to be under your tutelage. Thank you, again, for everything."
Marcopo looked down, something like sorrow in his eyes. "I am like the woman who just left. As a parent, as a teacher, we never know if we've done enough. We never know when to let our children trust in themselves."
Juno looked shocked. "Teacher! You are an amazing man. Just being in your presence makes me a better person. You have to look inside your heart, and know you have done all you can. All you should have. Trust in your heart, to know when I'm ready. "
Marcopo nodded, slowly. And a smile spread across his face. He raised his hand, that shook with age, and handed Juno the brush. Juno touched it with his fingertips, not yet comprehending. Marcopo pointed a feeble finger at the paint and then at Juno's bust.
Juno, with great ceremony, dipped into the paint and laid a circle of red on the wooded forehead of his bust. He looked up, and Marcopo's smile grew larger, before another fit of coughing racked his body.
Later that night, Marcopo passed peacefully in his sleep. |
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