The art form was new to me: small sculptures created from pieces of glass. But the chance to be creative, to use my hands to mold what normally lives only in my imagination, was a draw all its own. If there was art to be made, I wanted to be part of it.

Joining others from the retreat in the small art studio on campus, I carefully gathered pieces of cut and broken glass in various shapes and colors to build a simple cross. The rough edges needed sanding; the flat edges would be glued together.

I was there with friends, old and new, looking around at what others were doing, creating patterns of my own, crissing and crossing the slender pieces of glass. A slip of the hand, and my blood would be mingled with glue and glass dust. Some of my fellow sculptors experienced the pain of glasswork.

My hands escaped still smooth.

:: FINISH READING ::

I am writing over at Tweetspeak Poetry. I’d love to visit with you there!

Photo by Reid, via Flickr, used with permission under the Creative Commons License.