Stories abound. They are everywhere. Some stories are massive and glorious like a monument, a structure of marble and stained glass. Some are humble and simple like a puff of cloud or a puddle of water. And some stories–most perhaps–are somewhere in between, small, but complex, more than first meets the eye…like a feather.
Everyone has stories. Here, I will tell you some of mine.
They say that a sculptor doesn’t create what she sculpts. She only reveals what is already there in the medium. I was not finding that to be true. Either there was nothing to be revealed in the lump of clay that sat on the workbench before me, or I didn’t have the skill that a real sculptor is supposed to have. The skill of sight. The skill to see what it is that is seeking to be revealed in the medium.
I haven’t had the cookie dream in a long while, but I’ve always remembered it. It’s not a unique scenario. I find myself locked in the front room of a bakery overnight. The lights have been shut off for the day. But the ambient lights are still on. I particularly remember the realization that I have been left alone with all that lies before me.Continue reading
When he was young and heard the stories of the mythical birds and flying beasts of legend, he imagined himself as one of them. Powerful, ferocious, graceful, wise, and heroic. He imagined that one day, he would grow up to be like Phoenix, with its flaming wings and healing tears. He dreamed of being like Quetzlcóatl, worshipped by the two-leggers who otherwise ruled over all other beasts. When he heard the stories of Garuda, he was Garuda, flying the ancient gods to and fro on their quests. The thunderbird. The trickster raven. The creator heron known as Benu.
He was in awe of them all. And he wanted to learn to acquire their qualities. Cleverness, strength, knowledge. And wings so magnificent that all creatures great and small were gripped with awe at their sight.
But whenever he would voice such longings, he was always ridiculed, for he was so small that all who knew him called him the flea bird, and soon that became his name, “Flea.”Continue reading
They went to visit him at night. They had to. They could not walk about by day, for the light of the sun was abhorrent to them.
Those words were taken from the writings of a nurse who resided in the town at the foot of the hills, a charming and lively town in modern times. But steeped in accounts of strange—some say otherworldly—events from only a few generations past. Continue reading