Ice Sculpture and Sculptor

Disclaimer: To those who know me, not to worry, no sharp objects were actually placed in my hands, nor did I run with the scissors.

    One cannot say ‘done’ for that implies a sense of completion, task completed, book closed, “The End” written and fade to black. The week has been one of spring cleaning. A week of going through the notebooks of images and old journals of the heart and pulling out the pages now unreadable, scriches that go nowhere and those that time has covered the original meaning, emotion and intent. A few were tossed into the cyber world’s fabric, others were re-weaved and others were sent sailing, with full honor, upon their funeral pyre.
     In truth, I have been ice sculpting. I have taken chisel in hand and begun to chip away at the block of ice wherein a voice is calling. I tap, tap, tap ever so gently, fearful that I will inadvertently strike a weakened area and crack the entire block. I trust my hands. I trust my heart. I trust the voice calling. I do not know if others have felt the cold of this block. As the point of the chisel strikes against the ice I pray forgiveness from those who may have felt its cold sharp exterior and could not see the sculpture contained. Perhaps I should have put up “Under Construction” signs to warn them. Nay, the construction is done, I have but to see. “Limited Visibility” would have been more appropriate.
     The sculpture begins to take shape, though still incomplete. Like Venus, I think she has no arms. I smile, put the chisel down and hold the warm cup of coffee in my hand. I like that. My hands are always, always in my pockets when they are not working. But no, this is not about pockets. The armless ice sculpture reminds me that my reach, my hope, my love, my compassion extends beyond the reach of my short arms. I will learn to embrace like the horizon and the domed night sky.
     I begin to shake and put the coffee cup down. But what of the impending spring and heat- what will happen to my ice sculpture? The chisel falls to the floor. I reach down to pick it up and feel the melted ice pooled on the floor. Cupping the sculpture’s life in my hands I whisper my promise, “I will give drink to the thirsty and cool the foreheads of those in pain.” Looking up I catch a wink from the block of ice. I know the wink. It is a wink that doubts my reserve, my will, my fortitude and my hope. Overly ambitious? Too ethereal? Perhaps, but you are but a block of ice and I am the sculptor. And I begin to chisel again.