Author: Carey Ann Hunt

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By Carey Ann Hunt

Transformation is incredible. The way we can totally count on the fact that one thing can and will turn into something else, amazing isn't?  What you see now may or may not look the way that it does for long. Change is inevitable.  Thankfully, transformative change is available if we choose to participate. So it is, too, with transforming wool into felt.

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Earthen silk-like velvety slipperiness of cool clay in hands. Warm palms meet cool clay in celebration of contrast. Warm and cool. Soft yet firm. Its suppleness invites touch and kneading. Shapeshifting stirred by strength, will and desire to create.  Palms, fingers and thumbs eagerly begin the magic of play, creation and manipulation of transforming material from one form to another. Hands pleasure in the fresh feel of clay in the moist form, perfect malleable state to create. The softness of skin meets the gentle quality of earth and water. Blending elements and combining forces. Earth and water. Now the fiery warmth of hands from the power of each heart. Fire.

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By Carey Ann Hunt

Eyes were closed. Resting on a blue-gray plaid sleeping bag on a carpeted living room floor. The winter sun set hours before. People gathered, settled, warm and comfortable. Pillows all around and blankets, too. Light dimmed to near dark. A chilly night outside. Warm inside. My blanket pulled all the way up to my chin. Breathing slowed down. Silence marked by the roar of a plane in the distance.

As thunder builds in the distance so too did the sound in the room that night when the intensity and volume began to fill the room. Padded mallets striking condensed bronze, nickel and silver alloy. Pressure building as storms do, when thunder clouds roll and grow and rains come sometimes in torrents, washing sideways with force.  Building layer upon layer of sound all around me, now filling the corners of the living room. Every space packed with booming resonance pulsing like windswept currents of air turbulence over an agitated body of water.  Increasing and then deceasing in magnitude.  

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A second hand item.

Second to what?

Second to none other than

That voice inside your head.

As if somehow box store items

Are pristine in their past.

Untouched by experience.

As if that whisper of “that’s so mine”,

Knows the difference between new or not new,

You know when it’s yours,

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As your nose reaches the top most step,

An aroma of Tandoori yumminess  

wafts into your hungry self.

A smile may begin to appear

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