Some Writing--Part 2

And the story continues . . .

The first thing I noticed was that I wasn’t angry. I was just empty. I wasn’t ready to embrace any kind of overt joy, but whereas before my heart had been swollen with anger, confusion, pride, and regret—now I was empty and open. I had no intention of filling it up with anything or anyone, but I felt safe being open to whatever the day might bring. I methodically showered and dressed. I went to an appointment. Again, I let the sad songs play and I cried. But I also let the happy songs play too. And I read comics and I laughed.

I decided to tell Elijah’s father about the dream. I did. And that felt nice. I don’t know why I had had this dream about Elijah, but I did and I thought it would be good for his father to know that in my dream, Elijah is an awesome being who gives peace to everyone who comes near him, even me. I could sense that my words meant a great deal to his father. I felt a sense of power at my ability to heal with words.

By this time, I noticed that my finger was about half the size that it had been the day before. I let myself smile. I got in my car and made a beeline for the University of Utah Art Museum. I parked my car and walked inside.

I felt like I was floating. The museum housed a collection of art from Mexico. The sunlight fell in the pristine museum and the art stood proudly on their individual perches. Each piece was catalogued and identified for me on a card. I methodically studied each new piece, breathing the work in and out. I stood in front of a little clay pot and imagined the fingers molding the clay. I imagined the dust and the sweat from the artisan mixing in with the wet clay. And I cried at the miracle that had somehow connected me to the artisan across centuries and miles. I cried over a clay pot.

In awe, I stared at the weaving that the women of Mexico had created years before. I imagined a woman weaving her cloth in the dirt, one end attached to a small tree. Her heart must have been filled with responsibility, pain, and anguish. At some point, she probably got stung by a yellow jacket, or worse, by a man. And yet, here I was staring at this beautiful tapestry that she created. Despite the heat, the pain, or perhaps even the promise of pleasure, she dedicated herself to creating something beautiful. What is it that compels us to create in a world that stings and swells? I wanted to discover my connection to this woman.