The oaks reveal their stark and pointed branches now that their leaves have fallen to the ground. They reach for the clouds; they scallop the sky. They shimmer in ripples in the pond. But near the bank where the soft and leafy ground meets the water, there is only darkness. Shade cast by the white pines extends out from the land. I travel through this darkness as if on a turtle’s back, out almost to the middle of the pond.

We ride beyond the quivering muddiness, beyond the discomforts, beyond the thick pines that obscure any light or shape to where the branches point direction.

We ride in a small boat—fellow refugees, activists, seekers, artists, and poets. What can we do during these strange times?  What has meaning when so much is taken away? Where can we find something that holds? A place to land.

I search for a place where pond and sky meet inside my body—where I can form love with warm wax pressed between my fingertips. I made this small sketch, an idea for a new sculpture.

After finishing it, (it’s at the foundry and I don’t have a photo of the final version in wax) I started work on One Heart, three times as large.

I sent a photo to a friend and moments later she sent back this poem by Li-Young Lee.

  One Heart

Look at the birds. Even flying
is born

out of nothing. The first sky
is inside you, open

at either end of the day.
The work of wings

was always freedom, fastening
one heart to every falling thing. 

I quickly wrote back, “How could you find such a perfect poem? A thousand falling hearts in the open sky to you!!”

She answered, “I love it so much it's taped to the inside lid of my incense box at the office. I read it every day.”

Next will be a larger heart. Maybe there will be room for birds and flowers, a few fish and trees on this one. After all, we are in relationship with everything else. We are interdependent and interconnected. We are one heart.