Spheres of Glass, by Erin McArdle
We are spheres of glass, these souls, blown from the very breath of heaven. Each one of us is dipped, shoved into the painful heat of the glory hole, shaped on a hardened plate of steel, rounded out with just the right amount of pressure, and then, while we are still pliable, the air is pushed through us, filling us with volume, with shape, and if the artisan desires, a crackled color is then applied. I...I am a bright turquoise with red and orange piping. There's a bit of sunset yellow that glows somewhere inside, along with a bit of that color that pauses on the horizon somewhere between twilight and the final whisper of the last ray of sunlight.
Once we are set in the hay to slow dry, we either crack slightly or come out crystal and shining. I used to think I wanted to be crystal clear. Now I think I prefer a little bit of character, and some very serious color.
God sets us on the earth, hands us our precious ball of delicately blown glass (just one to start with), and asks us to walk along side him. He points out the visions of life, whether we are listening or not, presenting us with opportunity beyond our imagination. We are watching the starlight sparkle within, the sun and moon glitter across, all the while taking each step with care as we hold our gift. Many times the ball drops. Many times the sphere we spend so much effort protecting breaks, and Oh Lord, how unthinkable that must be...
I stand somewhere in the middle of a New York style street, staring at the shattered pieces of glass, the noise - a blur fading into the background, trying to pick them up, hands bleeding with every shard scraped off the horrid, burning pavement. Heart beat desperate to turn back time, to fix my mistakes, to move a little quicker, to hold onto my precious sphere. some of it has ground itself in and the powder is blown away under the hell of the wretched summer heat. I gather what I can and leave the rest. I empty it into a small bag. There are so many pieces as my feet crunch across the ground, and I wonder whose soul they belonged to, and if they really wanted them back and just couldn't get them or if they lost the ability to care after trying for so long to preserve it.
Somewhere along the way I find a side street and a bottle of superglue, revlon nail formula. Laughing out loud, I seriously thought it would work...for about 30 seconds. The ultra bonding substance could hold limbs together, but not the shattered pieces of me. As I stood there, almost hopeless, two thoughts came to mind: 1st-a clear bag. Definitely zip-lock, definitely tear proof. But then, as I grow older, I realize that nothing can tear proof the soul, or the heart that feeds upon it. 2nd-I have to find the glass blower. The artisan. He will be saddened to see such a mess, but there is a small twinkle in his eye, much like Ollivanders, that keeps the desperate hope I cling to from fading.
His shop is filled with gadgets...time collectors, tear drop measurers, colorful bits and baubles unrecognizable to me. Beautiful and aged. The room has that yellow glow to it, like the end of a sepia toned summer day on its last spark. He takes my bag, pours the remains into the glory hole and we watch it melt. I have done this many times before. And I am lost for words every time. But he knows. I can see it in the lines on his perfectly wrinkled face. He always knows. Slowly, he takes the rod and swirls it into the liquid glass, creating a new sphere - knowing in time I will break this one too, but making it just as pristine as the very first. He looks at me for just a moment before gazing at the colors he might add to it. This time, the piping is jet black, and the glass is of a sparkling mist. Somewhere I see the old hint of turquoise, and a hidden stripe of autumn. He finishes my ball and sets it to cool...Carefully he puts his tools back in their place, and then turns to me. He has not said a word, nor have I. We use the small sink to rinse my hands, the aloe plant sacrifices a limb for me.
And here I sit, like the fainting phoenix, waiting to rise from the ashes, as the glass cools and takes on its new shape and plethora of colors. Eventually the time will come, and he will hand it back to me-this new and old gift.
And somewhere down the road, it will come to pass that I will need to come back here again, perhaps slightly less battered. But I should make my way back here again. And maybe next time, it will only be to add on a bit of color - something more golden and starlit - or maybe, just maybe, he'll hand me another to carry.
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