I was in the Guild laundry room, making marbled paper. I used to do it there because you need a big sink and running water to rinse the sheets, and lines with clothespins to dry the papers. I hovered over the marbling tank, pulling a pin-toothed comb to drag circles of pigment through caragheenan thickened water.
Mrs. March entered the room on silent sandaled feet, eyes glittering at me under her wide brimmed straw hat.
"Ahhhhh. . .you have been here long? How does it go?"
"Pretty good."
She leaned over the tray to watch me working. "Yahhhh, so dis is how it is. Mmm-hmm." She was pleased to observe the body mechanics involved in marbling, a craft she wasn't so familiar with.
You have to be fluid in this activity, bend your back and maintain a steady motion with the hand on the comb. If you're shaky, or calm and present, the color pattern shows it. It is one of those arts that unforgivingly reflects back how you are in the moment.
"So." She looked up at me. "You can say 'I. . . . .am. . . .' " Gliding her arm to mimic my motion. "I. . .am. . ."
We smiled at each other with nothing much to say, and I kept working. After a minute she took her leave to go upstairs to the weaving workshop.
21 years later, I'd tell her, "It was a good suggestion, thank you. Applicable in a lot of situations: shoveling snow, buttering toast, wiping the table clean, sitting with the parents on my kid's basketball team. Took a long time; I'm just getting a bit of traction with it."
*Heart Without Measure, Morning Light Press
