Holding Hope

Holding Hope

The artist came from Switzerland. She had an artist's hands, but a poet's

soul. She saw two lambs without knowing the story. She saw bits of sparkle

for stars before she knew our origin. She stood and crouched and squatted

down to work. She was bundled in warm layers, boots, and a wool coat. She

shivered in the crisp air and cheered when momentarily a few rays of sun

embraced her through the tall pines. She chose a moon to mark femininity.

She gracefully eased the midnight sky into the Monarch's pattern.

He came from Germany. He found his space even if it was marked for just a

short time. He guided and suggested with gentleness. He said to dump all the

pieces out and we would find their purpose and place. He was right. He was a

mix of artist eye and patient teacher. He had a perfect plan. He gave delicacy

and daintiness to the piece. He was not satisfied with abstract, instead he

gave a fragility that was necessary for the piece to come alive. He gave the

lambs faces.

I sat cross legged and beseeched my hands to help my eyes to see. I

listened when he said sometimes the sky has many bits of blue and

sometimes not. I found pieces that filled a hole that my eyes did not yet see. I

had eyes and a heart that brimmed.

We laughed softly in synchronicity every time the child playing nearby with

her Mum giggled. We talked. We shared. We worked, we studied, we gazed

together at the pieces. We rose and stretched, we walked to the sun to warm

ourselves, we returned with warmer fingers to shift the tiles. We were

cheered by the joy of the birdsong.

We hugged our goodbyes and gratitude.

She said how good it was to work together in the stillness, and even in the

cold, and create such goodness. She was right.

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