Between Darkness and Dawn

by Margaret Duarte

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Anne said. “The light coming through the gallery’s floor-to-ceiling windows adds to its beauty, don’t you think?”

  Forms appeared to float in the walls of the vase, implying motion. When I moved, the colors changed. “Look,” I said. “It even radiates color onto the surrounding surfaces.”

  “It’s lovely,” Anne admitted. “But we came here to check out the ceramic pieces, so let’s get with it.”

  I turned away from the vibrant piece of glass and noticed a man standing behind a counter. I smiled a greeting, and he smiled back, but graciously allowed us the freedom to roam without interruption.

  Anne maneuvered me away from the glass display to a ceramic piece that was equally beautiful and absorbing. “Ceramics are made of clays that become plastic or fluid when mixed with water,” she said. “But once they’re fired, they can never become fluid again.”

  There were several expressive ceramic sculptures that took on human form, some headless, some armless, some looking like Star Wars aliens, but none with the gut-level attraction of Adam’s. I regretted that his work would disintegrate over time.

  “Is there a piece you particularly like?”

  “Actually, yes.” I indicated the statue of a naked woman with no face, who appeared to be hugging herself protectively. “It reminds me of Antonia, though I don’t know why.”

  “Maybe because she looks like she’s in pain.”

  “Could be,” I said, then sighed—not a sigh of dejection, longing, or pain, but rather of deep contentment. “I love it here, Anne. It’s peaceful, yet full of energy.”

  “There’s energy here all right, a life force that’s translated through each artist into action. It’s all about keeping the channel open and not worrying if it’s good or valuable or permanent.”

  “Are you implying that anyone can do something like this?” I asked, incredulous.

  “I’m saying it doesn’t matter. No one will ever think and respond the way you do. So tomorrow, I suggest you just go for it. Whatever you create will be beautiful.”

  “My mother thinks I’m losing my soul,” I said, allowing a nagging worry to surface that I’d attempted to bury during my Medicine Wheel ritual.

  “Which mother?”

  “Truus. According to her, Antonia is the reason behind my spiritual downfall.”

  “I don’t agree about the soul-losing and spiritual downfall part, but I can understand her concern. You’re taking a risk trying to express your truest self, and you’ll be misunderstood and condemned.”

  “It’s reckless,” I said.

  “Yes, and you may reach the point where you can never go back.”

  “I feel like such a bitch, pushing my agenda to the point where it hurts my mother and Morgan and Joshua. I wonder if I’m being selfish seeking to discover myself in this way.”

  “Well, there are bitches and then there are bitches,” Anne said. “Don’t let guilt hold you back. Prevail against it. Guilt is a sign that you’ve chosen what you think others expect of you as your standard of behavior and disavowed your own self-directed will. It’s the price you must pay for your freedom.”

  “You remind me of my sister,” I said.

  “That’s good, yes?”

  I nodded. “She’s the good kind of bitch.”

  “I like her already.”

  “She wants to be a Drug Enforcement Agent and loves to wear red.”

  “Does she have tattoos?”

  The thought made me laugh. “I forgot to ask.”

  “Probably a great big red one in the shape of a heart,” Anne said. “I hope to meet her someday.”

  “I hope you do, too.” We were getting sidetracked, but I didn’t care. It felt good talking to someone who understood where I was coming from and where I hoped to go. The only other person I’d come across who did so was Morgan. Thank God for Morgan. “Anne, I’ve made so many mistakes.”

  “Big, fat, hairy deal! If you want to follow rules to perfection, Big Sur isn’t the place for you. You can’t be self-conscious or afraid of doing something wrong. You want an authentic personal vision, girl, not hollow imitations. Speaking of which... Do you dance?”

  I shook my head. “Too self-conscious.”

  “Then I know just the place where you can frolic with your inner bitch.”

  I groaned. “What are you getting me into?”

  “Yourself.”

  Ah, now things were getting really interesting. “If you expect me to get all dolled up, no deal. My tent may be big, but I didn’t bring many beauty supplies.”

  Anne’s bracelets jingled as she patted me on the back with the confidence of a seasoned event planner. “Just leave it to me.”

  “I’ve been doing a lot of that lately,” I said. “Following the leader.”

  There was a moment of silence, and I thought I had offended her.

  “Just tell me when I step out of line,” she said.

  I smiled. “Actually, you’re good for me.”

  “You’re good for me, too,” she said.

  Chapter Eight

  “EVERYONE NEEDS A CREATIVE OUTLET,” Anne said as we entered her studio the next morning. “Otherwise we lose track of ourselves.”

  I heard her, but wasn’t actually listening, distracted by the medley of textures, shapes, and colors of the clay conceptions shelved in a part of the room I hadn’t noticed before. What visions, what emotions, what experiences had Anne captured and translated when creating these figurines, bowls, vases, and abstract forms?

  Anne picked up a textured and glazed piece that resembled a crouched figure and handed it to me. “Through art we find ways to understand the conflicting emotions inside of us.”

  I thought of the framed lithograph I had planned to buy several years back while visiting a seaside gallery with my mother. It was a Bev Doolittle, titled The Spirit Takes Flight. Etched on a plaque below the painting had been a quote by Chief Seattle. We are part of the Earth, and the Earth is part of us. Something about the images camouflaged in the painting had made my spirit soar. Unfortunately, it didn’t have the same effect on my mother. “Are you out of your mind?” she’d asked. “Why would you want to hang that disturbing picture anywhere in your house? A patch of ground with a bunch of leaves and rocks and... Dear God, is that a snake?” Torn between the desire to purchase the print and an equal desire to appease my mother, I’d opted for appeasement. Better to give in than immerse myself in the thick cloud of censure she wore around her like a cloak and was more than happy to share with the ones she loved.

  “Most of us spend our adult lives producing, accomplishing, and setting goals,” Anne said, bringing my attention back to the figurine I was holding. It reminded me of the statue I’d seen in the Flowering Bloom Gallery of a naked woman with no face, who appeared to be hugging herself protectively. Both pieces, though expressed by different artists in different ways, gave the impression of people in deep pain.

  “Today you’re going to discover something free of that,” Anne said, “something you can give yourself to for no benefit that you can see. But first you need to relax, and, by that, I mean play, make a mess, let the clay get under your nails.”

  I handed the figurine back to Anne.

  She brought out the clay I had prepped the day before and slapped it onto the head of the potter’s wheel. “I’ll teach you a few basics and then let you loose. Pretend you’re in Kindergarten and have found a new toy. Don’t worry about getting it right. You don’t have to get an A.”

  “Gotcha.” I tried out the seat attached to the base of the housing wheel. Though not very comfortable, it provided easy access to the tray in front of me.

  “This wheel is electric,” Anne said. “There’s a foot pedal to speed it up or slow it down. I suggest you let it go at a slow, steady speed. The slip tray catches the water and slurry as you work, but don’t let it overflow. I’m not giving you any throwing tools bes
ides a sponge, a towel, and water. Today, you’ll just use your hands.”

  Water, element of the Southern direction of the Medicine Wheel, takes the shape of the container it’s poured into, the way the physical manifestations in our life take the form of our thoughts. “Got it.”

  “Water is an important lubricant throughout the throwing process,” Anne said, “but don’t use too much. It’s best to use a little, often, and sponge it on. Re-wet your hands and the clay before each move, always keeping a film of water between them.”

  Water, the great in-between, expresses differently under varying conditions, can be solid like ice or transformed into vapor. “The clay smells kind of moldy.”

  “That means it’s aged,” Anne said, “and bacteria and mold have had time to develop.”

  Bacteria? Mold? I backed away from the wheel.

  “Mold and bacteria contribute to the workability of the clay,” Anne said. “So, consider it a good thing.”

  “Right!”

  Anne patted my back. “Okay then, have a blast. I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

  I shooed her away, anxious to begin.

  She noticed and laughed. “Wish I had a mirror so you could see yourself right now.”

  “Bye,” I said, my heart pounding.

  Once I got the potter’s wheel spinning, I touched the cool, wet clay’s center. Like my center, it waited to be transformed and discovered. I let myself go limp, allowing all resistance to float away, and, while listening to the steady whir of the turntable, I positioned myself into the slip tray and leaned over the wheel head.

  Eyes closed, I cupped my right hand around the clay, resting my thumb on top. Then I overlapped my right hand with my left and squeezed. I continued to work by feel, reminding myself to every so often release my grip and re-lubricate my hands. Pull, stretch, pinch, squash, my hands moved as if possessed. I felt an opening beyond the mind through which I passed, becoming part of something greater, some kind of eternal flow. Something magical coursed through me and through my fingers, speaking a language beyond rationality and words. I forgot about time; I forgot about control; I forgot about myself.

  I opened my eyes, turned off the wheel, and, as with a dream upon waking, recall of where I’d gone and what I’d done, faded so quickly that I couldn’t hold on to it.

  Anne returned while I was washing my hands.

  I heard a gasp, but ignored it, having no idea what I had created and feeling a strange reluctance to find out. “Marjorie,” Anne said in a strained voice. “What is it?”

  “Not a squirrel teacup,” I quipped.

  Silence, except for the sound of Anne shifting around and turning the wheel. “It’s not of this world.”

  Curiosity got the better of me. I turned from the sink, but Anne blocked my view. I stepped around her.

  Whoa. “Did I do that?”

  All I remembered was the cool feel of the clay and the exhilaration of molding it with my hands. Hands that had developed a mind of their own, tearing, pressing, pulling, everything just flowing together.

  “I thought you were going to make a cylinder or a bowl,” Anne said. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Think you could do it again?”

  “Not in a million years.”

  Anne ran her fingertips over the flowing moist clay. “Sometimes it’s hard to know where inspiration comes from. But in your case, I have to agree. You’re an amateur. You shouldn’t have been able to accomplish something like this. Even after years of working with the medium, I couldn’t have.” She pulled up a stool and sat down. “Adam’s kind of talent, I can rationalize as a case of acquired savant syndrome, where AD allows for some kind of superhuman mental capacity. But this really gives me pause. Do you have any idea what provoked you to create this piece?”

  The creation looked unfamiliar, as though some unknown part of me had escaped and manifested itself in the clay. “Not a clue.”

  “What about Antonia, your birth mother? Was she an artist? Do you think she was streaming through you?”

  “As far as I know, the Esselen weren’t potters or sculptors,” I said, sensing the inspiration had come via a different route.

  “I don’t think this is about reproducing a lost art,” Anne said. “Rather, the receiving and transmitting of a message from something out of this world. Contrary to what many believe, inspiration isn’t earned. It isn’t permanent or solid, but ephemeral.”

  I peered at the sculpture, following its caverns, its protrusions, looking for clues. Something had worked through me, all right, some power greater than myself. “Have you ever heard of the zero-point energy field?”

  “It’s a universal information field that contains the quantum energy from which we create the physical world,” Anne said. “Some theorists believe that the zero-point field holds the history of every soul and connects us all together. Mystics and practitioners of holistic medicine refer to it as the Akashic Record or Book of Life.”

  How fortunate I was to be able to share my experience with someone receptive to, and tolerant of, the unexplainable. “Dr. Mendez refers to it as a holographic field or collective consciousness,” I said, “some kind of super dense sea of frictionless energy and information that we can tap into unconsciously. It’s like the whole of the universe was inside of me and I downloaded something from there and it translated through my hands into the clay. Does that make sense to you?”

  Anne laughed. “I’m an artist, remember? So, yes, I know what you mean, but I’ve never created anything as mind boggling as this.”

  “As you said, I was the receiver and transmitter of a message from outside of this world. What the message means is a mystery. Maybe we’ll find out when the time is right. That’s how things have been going for me lately. I let go of my questions and wait.”

  ~~~

  I was still awake fretting over the day’s surprises when a small bundled up form entered my tent. I reached for my flashlight and snapped it on, revealing little Holly, eyes wide and likely blinded by the sudden, intense light. My heart pounded in delayed reaction. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry.”

  I aimed the flashlight away from the child as she edged forward. “Why aren’t you in your tent sleeping?”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “Then go to your momma’s tent.”

  “She said not to bother her. Anyway, she snores. So does Dad.”

  “I’m sure they don’t want you wandering off.”

  “It’s okay.”

  It was not okay. But she was here now, so I’d do my best to keep her safe. “Well, come on in then, and I’ll fix you some hot cocoa.”

  She sat at the foot of my sleeping bag. “With marshmallows?”

  “Yeah. It comes that way. Instant, you know.”

  She inspected the space around us, full of dark shadows, yet intimate and cozy with its cocoon-like fabric walls. “I like your tent.”

  “Thanks. I like it, too.” I slipped out of my sleeping bag and into my down jacket. “Stay here where it’s warm.” I had a stash of bottled water, untouched since I’d sampled the water coming from the camp spigot. I retrieved the packaged cocoa from the cargo hold of my Jeep and closed the lift gate softly so as not to wake Holly’s parents.

  She stuck her head through the flap of the tent as the water started to boil. “Who are you hiding from?”

  “No one, honey.”

  “Mom says you are.”

  No comment.

  “It’s okay,” Holly said. “I hide all the time.”

  “From who?”

  “My brothers, mostly. Dad says I’m afraid of my own shadow.”

  “Yeah, me, too.” My shadow side, my disowned darker side, where my weaknesses and foibles resided, the aspects and traits of myself that I found disturbing and was afraid to explore. I needed to descend into and accept that side of myself in order to break free of its hold. Did th
is child have a shadow side, too, a darkness she needed to explore? If so, was there anything I could do to help?

  I handed Holly a mug of cocoa and fixed one for myself. “When you’ve finished your drink, I’ll loan you my flashlight, so you can find your way back to your tent. Tomorrow you can return it, unless you’d like to keep it. I have another one.”

  “I better not. Mom’ll ask where I got it.”

  “Then just drop it off whenever you get a chance, okay?”

  “This cocoa is good, the best I’ve ever tasted,” Holly said, dodging my question like a seasoned politician.

  The cocoa was instant, nothing special, but I knew what she meant. Things always taste better when you share it with someone you care for. Unfortunately, the caffeine and sugar would likely keep me awake the rest of the night. Hopefully it wouldn’t have the same effect on Holly.

  “Thanks for being so nice to me,” Holly said.

  “You’re welcome, honey. Everyone needs a friend now and then.”

  “Like Adam?”

  “Adam?”

  “The old man who makes the mud carvings. He’s my friend. But it’s a secret. I promised not to tell.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “That’s because you’re his friend, too. He told me when he was making the mud carving that looks like you.”

  I shivered. “The one he made before I got here.”

  “He knew you were coming.”

  “Did he tell you my name?”

  “He called you ‘Sunwalker.’ Is that your middle name?”

  My body felt like it was going into spasms. “Sort of.”

  Holly’s eyes narrowed. “I only shake when I’m scared.”

  This kid was sharp. “You better get back to your tent before someone misses you.”

  “They only miss me when they need something.”

  I sighed, saddened by the many forms of abuse disguised as love.

  Chapter Nine

  ANNE PROPELLED HER VOLVO sedan down Highway 1, driving the narrow, winding road as though it were a racetrack instead of an obstacle course. I thought we would miss our destination altogether, but no, Anne had things under complete control. Without warning, she braked, swerved off the road, and screeched into a crude pullout to our right.