All day long, I have been sculpting, in my mind. Would that I had some clay to caress, to hold, to mold. For years now, I have heard people speak of reincarnation. Is it real? Are we souls reborn into new bodies? Alive for a while, to experience new things, different countries, better relationships?
In one of my previous lives, I have been a sculptor, of my inwardness and my trials. When very young, I began sculpting in my mind. I could close my eyes and feel the stone, rock, marble or clay. Actually feel it with my fingers and hands. The cool embrace we shared within my hands. Entwined by tools. The way my heart would be pulled by the creations we shared.
Oh! What I would give for some clay. To wet it down, cool water and slickness all running beneath my fingertips, staining my nails and skin with the loveliness of the red and earthen tones. Squeezed out until shaped into a form, ready to be kilned by the heat of my passion, tossed about … ceremonial cremation … with tongues of fire, leaping their dance, to forever encase the unspoken dream, of a moment in time. Etched and captured, forever.