Order Only Invites Refusal

The dogwood came from the lot next door; a dying tree they cut down to make room for something new. "Too good to toss," they said, and on my first night of sculpture class the wood was offered like a welcome to the practice. I had been turning for years by then—bowls, functional things, craft with a purpose. This was intended for something different.

I knew the rot was there. I planned around it, gripped the good wood on either side, and asked for a sphere. Geometry. Order. The rot broke through anyway, left its jagged mouth in the side of something that wanted to be perfect. The wood refused.

The alabaster came from nowhere in particular, anonymous, faceless. I shaped it soft, gave it a curve like something living. It didn't argue. It became a place for the sphere to land, a seat for the stubborn wound that couldn't heal.

One refused; one received. A collaboration; a negotiation.