Rock, Paper, Scissors

Humans are remarkable things. As I sit upon my bed, classic rock thundering around my room I have cornered myself in, under siege by leather and paper and scissors and glue. This is my time for meditation. Away from the doom and gloom of a world gone mad. The pandemic cannot touch me here. This is my temple.

It is in that twilight between wake and sleep I invent; dreaming up things I could use but have never seen. And after the designs have bounced around my mind, perceived problems solved it is time to go from dreamer to doer. And here I am in my sanctuary of craft. My path is clear. Each step laid out before me in my minds eye and my resolve is unfaltering.

Huge A1 sheets of paper of the colours of my mood, are pulled and reshuffled. Measured, pencil marks guide my scissors as I craft the bricks that will form my latest invention. Kitty jumps up upon my bed and loving the textured paper against her soft, black fur, plops herself down. But I cannot berate her. I love her. And I am sure she would help if she could hold a pair of scissors! So I work around her as we both purr in our separate ways.

And my mind drifts in that sublime way as the body is busied with task. I remember reading ‘Zen and the art of archery’, how the same rules apply now. That it is never about what you do but the intention you invest as you do it. And my mind becomes still and peace is mine as I snip and fold, snip and fold. The vehicle of my solace taking form to the sound of Led Zeppelin and my kitty’s purrs.

I ponder the idea that creation is at the heart of faith. That art and craft are a religion in their own right. That work in creation is a form of prayer. After all, was it not C. S. Lewis that said, “Regarding the debate about faith and works: It's like asking which blade in a pair of scissors is most important.”

Kitty stretches out a paw to catch my hand. “Hello” she is saying. And to the syncopated beat of ‘Ramble on’, I carry on. I look up at the statue of Sarasvati above my head and whisper a thank you, for her blessings of truth, knowledge and music and a rebellious nature to do things my own way.

And I snip and fold, snip and fold. Out now with the brush and glue as I mortar the bricks of my temple. But I do not rush. It is about the journey I once was told. I patiently run the brush along thin strips of paper, hidden within folds, within folds. This will be a thing of secrets I am sure. And love.

And then its heart and organs and skeleton are finally built. A fragile and complex thing. Delicate and too easily crushed but perfect in its engineering. Waves of pleasure and content beats against the shore of my heart with increasing force as each stage I complete, similar to the tide coming home.

I recall a late friend, a medicine woman once telling me of the nature of eagles. That the Eagle knows nothing of boundaries nor fences: Its Kingdom stretches as far as it can see. This is why I say humans are remarkable things. Our capacity to invent and create is only limited by the limits of our imagination. That is why I invent best in that land between thought and dream.

I tumble kitty as I pull a stretch of leather from beneath her paper bed. “Sorry Kitty” I say playfully as she busies herself with a bath. And the familiar opening chords of “Stairway to heaven” pluck at the air in my room.

The time has come to give body to my creation. I feel the leather beneath my fingers and observe the grain. I see scars in the skin. It is about the intention we put in and I take a moment to think upon the cow that gave its life for this very moment. Its time warmed by the sun and its joy chewing cud amongst its kind, upon the open pastures. Cows are great existentialists I once was told and I smile and say a silent thanks to its sacrifice.

The scissors cut and the brush spreads glue as I fuse the parts together. ‘Careful’ I remind myself. ‘Do not rush’ and with a bone blade I gently stretch the skin across the paper as it becomes one. And I sit. Quiet and at peace as the glue sets and I tickle kitty’s belly.

It is complete as am I. Therapy better than any retreat I sit quietly replete in my efforts. Hours have passed but no time at all. The Korean folk musicians call it ‘Schinoré’; the sensation of time standing still despite hours that pass whilst you perform your art. But my task is not yet done. I save the off cuts of paper and leather. Never waste. And methodically pack up brush, close the glue, ruler and pencil and scissors. I remind myself of the mad world outside and though I do not have much in my isolation I say a prayer of thanks to the tools I have. Not just the paper and pencil and scissors but to the tools within, of vision, patience and self-discipline. And I tickle kitty's belly once more as she curiously watches the dismantling of my city of craft upon my bed.

David Mason once wrote,

“As stone crushes scissors, as paper snuffs stone and scissors cut paper, all end alone. So heap up your paper and scissor your wishes and uproot the stone from the top of the hill. They all end alone as you will, you will.”

In a maddening world it is important that we take the time to create. Keep up the good fight. “Count your blessings” my grandpa would say. And I do, every single day.

By Ross Pelham Austin Lockhart