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Show Moon - 70 lower. Beside the stones she carefully printed their names: Mica, rose quarz, smoky quartz, white quartz, granite, sandstone. How had she never noticed before how beautiful stones could be? She decided she wanted to become a geologist and a naturalist. She went into the flowers and caught butterflies in her cupped hands, thrust them with guilt-ridden haste into the death-jar. Then she pinned them to a board, meticulously labeled monarch, cabbage, tiger swallowtail, blue pygmy. And she kept Cecropia cocoons in jars, the lids punched to give them air. She saved her allowance and bought a sketchbook in which she carefully drew a replica of each butterfly and moth. It was tedious, for her natural way to draw was impulsive, a blind dash of lines, blurs of color, quickly before some dark part of her mind had time to surface and say, "No. Not good enough! " Now she forced the patience on herself, simply because drawing from life was what naturalists had to do. She devised a technique of staring only at the subject, never at the page, until the essential outline was completed. Only then could she begin to force her will into the picture, a will tempered by the need to be faithful to the world. Horses lived nearby. Joy loved the sweet huffing of their soft nostrils, the gentle darkness of their bottomless eyes. Everyday after breakfast she walked over to the stables, bringing paper and pencils so she could learn to draw these glorious animals. Then she patiently followed the owner around until he let her help mucking out the stalls. Finally the owner invited her to ride. She was never afraid. The horse she rode became an extension of her most powerful self, a creature who knew about the need to cover ground and stir up dust. Her hips moved easily with the great thrust of the strides like a wicked dance. They galloped the path around the lake, jumped logs and sloshed through streams. |
