In The Hand of the Maiden: Work Discovery
The slowing down of life in order to tell story allows for better context. The essence of the storyteller is able to flourish. The distance of time between writing and the sharing makes room for all that is grace. Is the living easier than the telling? Ask the listener.
“The meaning of a text is one thing and its calligraphy quite another, but on occasion they are closely linked.”– Hassan Massoudy
“It is more valuable to write books than To plant vines, since he who plants a vine Feeds his stomach, while he who writes a Book feeds his soul.”– Alcuin
“This story houses within it the entire universe, by virtue of this very sentence.” — Deborah Cowell
Q: What is imagination?
A: A dimension children see, and one adults remember
N°. 412 Arenaria
The woman in the parlor sits and she waits.
There are no curtains on the windows. She learns to look out. She sits quietly among thousands of books. She reads Khalil Gibran, a book about butterflies, and another about a young girl, a pig, and a spider.
The woman in the parlor does not pace. She listens
to the footsteps overhead. She watches the leaves change color on the trees outside of the picture window. She watches as it snows and tells no one that she waits for springtime.
The woman in the parlor dances after midnight.
Sometimes a little before. She wakes up to birdsong
and the sound of clashing garbage cans — because the sound of birdsong and the sound of garbage cans do clash.
She sees people watch her singing when they think she is not looking. She actually lip syncs — a secret game to keep them guessing.
The woman in the parlor sat quietly for hours one day and scared the man across the street who was doing work on the grounds in front of the storefront church. The next day, when she sat for hours again, gesticulating with her hands in the air as she spoke to herself,
a little old lady in a cute little hat swept the steps
of the same storefront church and, when she finished, appeared to say a prayer.
The woman in the parlor watched over the course of days
as two gentlemen — craftsmen — replaced an old wooden door
on the house next to the store front church
with a raw piece of wood they turned into artwork.
Sanding. Staining. Waiting. Sanding. Finishing.
The woman in the parlor knows breaking free from chains does not lead to walking around like a runaway slave.