On Saturday, we visit open studios. At our last stop, I find myself face to face with a 4’x6’ work of fiber – hand-woven muslin with wool and thread. The curves and stitches move me so unexpectedly that tears sting my eyes.
The artist presses a finger to my forearm as we say hello and goodbye. Those are ginkgo leaves, she says gently, briefly tracing the lines and then the tendon down to my wrist. Did you know they survived the atomic bomb?
Yes, I reply, they symbolize nature’s ability to move through all sorts of horrors. We lock eyes.
You seem to me to be someone moving through things, she says, shaking my hand. Resilience comes in all forms, she whispers.
I prefer the word transformation, I breathe. Resilience implies springing back to what once was, but we are never put back together the same way once broken.
Nor should we, is her response.
object of memory 