Bowl 31: Amy

We're walking the trails of the Emerald Necklace,

together and apart.

She is accompanied by her trusty Scout.

I walk alone ...

beneath my feet the softness of eons of life

that have emerged only to disintegrate and emerge again.

around me fallen trees silently transforming,

lichens and mosses hastening the process of melting back into earth.

it is one of those almost solstice days,

the sky is still blue

but there is the feeling of evening settling in despite the early hour.

there is deep silence, 

somehow undisturbed by the distant hum of the first bloom of rush hour traffic.
there is peace,
despite the heartache of the suffering that has been all too present in recent days.

She gazes silently as Scout drinks from a pool . . . they are clearly comfortable companions,

at ease after walking these paths together over many seasons.

"Scout barks at people," she tells me . . . "the rough bark of a hound -- it's not so pleasant."

But he doesn't.

Perhaps he too is hushed by the nearness of the dark and the quiet.

Perhaps he too is feeling this time of turning inward.

 Perhaps he too is quietly waiting for the return of the light.

Bowl 30: Heather

I've stopped in for a cup of coffee.

It's late morning on a Thursday and the ice cream shop is virtually empty.

Only a couple of women and a child in a stroller talking softly.

There's something special about the young woman behind the counter.

Maybe in the way she asks me what I want, 

easily, with care, not at all rushed or harried.

Or maybe in how she notices me eyeing the baked goods case

and asks if I want a pastry with my coffee,

then smiles when I say I'm trying not to get one,

but then opt for a cinnamon roll

telling myself I will eat it later and savor each small bite.

Such a simple transaction,

so satisfying in its simplicity.

A cup of coffee -- organic and fair trade --

an exchange of good will and smiles,

the warmth of the coffee, and the lingering taste of cinnamon.

Bowl 29: Ravi & Vinayak

Walking by displays of ancient bowls from Asia and the Near East

I notice two young boys and their mom,

sketchbooks open,

capturing the graceful gesture of Islamic arches in careful pencil strokes.

Later, in the hushed silence of the Buddha room,

I find them again . . . 

One brother drawing the peaceful, dark, Japanese Buddha -- one I have often been drawn to myself.

The other, the golden-hued Buddha in the center, seated on an enormous lotus flower.

They are so small next to these huge seated figures,

 yet their focus and concentration bring the scale somehow into balance.

And when we begin talking I find they are delightful as well . . . 

They love to do art they tell me, and their mom makes art too!

They are excited about the bowl and pose for me in several different ways.

It's a happy and easy exchange.

Later, as I gaze on bowls from China, Korea, and Japan

I reflect on the ancient stream of artists

reaching back at least 37,000 years to the caves at El Castillo,

and on how the urge to make art continues in these young brothers.

I feel gratitude for our human impulse to make something of beauty,

something of use, 

something that reflects the joys and sorrows of our lives.

I think about those people from so long ago and wonder

 if they ever had an inkling that the work of their hands, and hearts, and minds 

would survive through so many generations

to inspire me and my young friends to do the same.

Bowl 28: Alex

 

Sometimes it's smooth sailing!

In New York for Thanksgiving weekend,

I need to go from Yorktown to Levittown

then into the city

I anticipate gridlock. . . and find none . . . 

then, driving 'cross 21st street a free, on-street, parking spot emerges. . . 

the gods must be with me!

I grab my bag with bowl and camera

with little hope of an encounter on a chilly day in chilly NYC

but turning the corner, outside a cafe,

a man sits singing to his toddler,

"cold, cold, cold it's cold," he chants . . . 

and she giggles.

We chat for a while, then his wife emerges from the cafe,

a tiny infant snuggled against her chest . . . 

I do a quick calculation.

"She must have been born right around the time of the storm," I surmise . . . 

A week before, they say . . . it was pretty tough living without power for a week with a newborn.

But they are smiling . . . like everyone I've talked to who weathered the storm . . .

This human life . . . so fragile, so resilient, so unpredictable. 

Sometimes we weather the storms,

and sometimes it's smooth sailing.

 

 

Bowl 27: Barbara

I've been carrying this bowl for weeks . . .

the weather's turned cold . . . 

a hurricane

a snow storm,

all in all, difficult days for finding someone sitting on a park bench

open to a conversation.

I go to the library,

to the cafe downstairs near the shelves of the used book sale . . .

A woman browses, wrapped against the weather

although it is quite cozy inside.

She carries books and books on tape.

We smile, pass each other as we browse, pass and smile again.

She moves to a table with a bowl of soup and removes her wrap.

 Conversation feels possible, but two artists I know are sitting nearby . . . 

I feel intimidated. . . what will they think? do they know my project? will I look the fool?

 . . .so much doubt!

I am tempted to abandon the entire project.

I swallow my pride, and my fears, and say hello.

In her pile is Tales of the Alhambra by Washington Irving . . . 

an audio book I've listened to . . . and a place I've been.

She tells me she is going to Spain in the spring

and I recall being in the Alhambra many years ago, 

my eyes glazing over as I wandered through rooms covered with lush pattern and texture --

floor to ceiling - and floor and ceiling.

then coming upon a bath in muted blues and greens,

and being stunned by the beauty and the simplicity of the space.

We share our relief that the weather has broken

and at the outcome of the election -- 

we'd both worked on the same campaigns but hadn't crossed paths.

She says she's driving to New York for the weekend

something I'll be doing as well only a week later.

Her mother-in-law is packing to go to Florida.

My mom lives in Florida and I'll be going too next month.

Fear is long gone and I am warmed by the many small connections we find.

The exchange of a bowl and some conversation . . .

so simple, so satisfying . . . 

and almost abandoned in the face of emotions that dissolved, like the storms, a just few moments later.

Bowl 26: David

He's reading as I approach -- it's book about how we're all connected . . .

thoroughly researched, including interviews with numerous physicists and other scientists . . . 

it sounded interesting, but I've already forgotten the title and the author.

 

He wants to know if the shape of the tea bowl has a functional purpose

and why I call them tea bowls and not cups . . . 

interesting questions.

I reply that the shape is serendipitous, there only to make the hand feel comfortable . . . 

and that for me bowls have gravitas -  evoking ceremony and offering,

 whereas tea cups seem flighty, somewhat lightweight, frivolous even.

I find myself explaining the process of inscribing the lines and inlaying the slip

 . . .  he tells me that he's writing a play.

 . . . and he is trying to devise a way for someone to put a secret message on the back of the Rosetta Stone . . . a message that could be revealed at a crucial moment . . .

we speculate about clay and glue and tar and acid . . . 

and what would stick to stone and what would look like it belonged.

Then we talk of making art for the love of it--

plays to be seen by friends and family,

tea bowls to be given away

sharing a joy in the process

then sharing the process with the world.

 

I walk away, embraced by the warm sun and the brilliant colors of the day,

filled with the contentment of a shared moment in time and space --

feeling connection.

Bowl 25: David

It's a circus of sound, color, movement.

The steady beat of Brazilian drummers holds the space.

Onlookers bounce in rhythm with the band.

Even the Tai chi players seem somehow in sync.

 Children running, trailing brilliant streamers.

While overhead a giant kite/banner/origami thing snakes its way through the space

defining it. . . sheltering it . . .without really enclosing it.

He is drawing bowls as I approach -- with black charcoal on white paper.

But he is sitting on a blanket with three colorful paintings arrayed beside him.

$15 each, he tells me.

He's studying fashion at MassArt, 

the child of Columbian immigrants who came here to build a better life, 

and he is grateful for the opportunity to study art, to live among museums, 

and to draw inspiration from artists both living and dead.

I offer him a bowl. Not for a painting, just for his photo.

Hands smeared with charcoal against the pale glazed surface.

the drawing of his bowls behind.

The image, and the trade, are just right.

perfectly in sync with the rhythm of the drums

and the spirit of the day.