Life on the Edge

I spent most of today, Sunday, in my bare earth studio sculpting a small altar piece for a single stone. In a few weeks I will show a photo of the finished piece and an explanation of what it is about. However, what I want to share now is a poem that came to mind while I was carving. And to thank Mr. Lax, who, forty five years ago in the sixth grade, inspired in me an awe for learning. Purple by Alexis Rotella In the first grade Mrs. Lohr said my purple teepee wasn't realistic enough, that purple was no color for a tent, that purple was a color for people who died, that my drawing wasn't good enough to hang with the others. I walked back to my seat counting the swish swish swishes of my baggy corduroy trousers. With a black crayon night fall came to my purple tent in the middle of an afternoon. In second grade Mr. Barta said draw anything; he didn't care what. I left my paper blank and when he came around to my desk my heart beat like a tom tom. He touched my head with his big hand and in a soft voice said the snowfall how clean and white and beautiful.