Years ago, while traveling to San Antonio, I visited the shop of a coppersmith who was schooled and trained by her father...generations of ancestors calloused hands meandered through her hands now. Her work had weight and memory and astounding elegance. There is a visceral response to certain types of metal artistry that starts in the belly and heart. I instantly knew I needed these three perfectly imperfect bowls in my home. The felt both humble and exquisite.
So, I unwrapped them, placed them upon tabletops and tried hanging them on painted walls and positioning them upon windowsills. Not quite right. Fill them with colored stones or seashells? Displayed and propped upright. Nope. Still felt empty...
I finally stacked them and left them be.
I found them again this week and realized what might be their purpose here...lining them up I filled one bowl with wishes of comfort and peace for those who have endured great loss; a place to hold teardrops till they evaporate over time. The second I filled with scraps and scribbles of dreams and blessings. Tiny notes chicken-scratched with what I hope the future and the present will hold. The third was left empty, perhaps the place for unexpected wonder to land and settle into. Space for not-yet-dreamed dreams and moments of Grace...I look for it to overflow.
sending peace, connie
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