miyako73
05-24-2009, 02:50 AM
Sculptor of the Earth
Miyako I.
His father named him Rodin, thinking one day his son would inherit the mallet and chisel he got from his father. He belonged to the family of woodcarvers known for their flawless sculpting of religious icons—their Madonna really had a virginal face, and the Christ on their crosses was really suffering. Their masterpieces seemed more than real. Their ethereal eyes asked for something otherworldly. Their exquisite fingers begged for salvation and souls. Rodin thought it was because of the varnish and the sun.
In the village peopled mostly by the superstitious and penitents, Rodin grew up a stubborn free thinker. He did not believe the cholera that took more than a hundred lives and spared him when he was ten as a divine punishment. He knew the source—the springs where they got their water and where the animals also quaffed their thirst.
He also dismissed the polio of his sister as the result of the evil eye that stared at her when she was a baby. The health clinic was quite a hike, so his mother did not bother to sweat for her child's vaccination. Rodin blamed his father for selling their horse so he could buy a slab of narra, the priciest wood known for its grain that looked like a map of bleeding veins. He could not understand why a wood could not be just that, a wood.
"You seldom find this kind nowadays," said his father.
"Do you blame the carvers?" Rodin asked.
"No. I blame those rich people who waste the wood to wall their homes."
"How about the poor who burn them to cook their food?"
His father could not answer. He knew his son had a point. Early on, he realized his son possessed a different kind of talent. It was not about holding a mallet or sharpening a chisel but how not to use them. His mother wanted him to become a priest, thinking he was very smart and could easily interpret the Bible and share it with them.
Rodin protested, "I don't want to be a carver or a preacher."
"You're old enough; you need to do something," his mother advised.
"If you don't want to do anything," his angry father said, "go away!"
Rodin left the house, and built himself a small hut on top of the hill his family owned but abandoned. His father was just too busy carving, the only job he knew, and his mother would rather gossip with their neighbors than plant rice and corn. That was what he hated the most among the women in his village. They were a bunch of hypocrites lazily waiting for graces from God. He hated the men too for their fanatic religiosity, which seemed like a monkhood that tied them up to their wood workshops.
For several years, Rodin did not show up at his parents' house steps. He toiled day and night planting narra saplings and watching for marauding boars. A few years later, the hill looked beautiful from afar. Young trees bloomed tiny yellow flowers. To Rodin, they were more beautiful than the ethereal eyes or the exquisite fingers. He continued working. Instead of praying for rain, he diverted the water from ponds and springs. During wet season, he built canals and trenches instead of atoning for the sun.
By the time he reached his late twenties, the timber trees were ready to be logged and sold. It was also the right time to show to his parents what he had done. "This is the sculpture I have carved." He showed them the hill that looked like a forest now. "I'm ready to preach," he declared. After all the trees were felled, the new village rose where men and women looked up the sky not for Him but to see how tall their narra trees were. "Let's build a reservoir, a road, and a hospital." Rodin rallied the people of New Hope.
Miyako I.
His father named him Rodin, thinking one day his son would inherit the mallet and chisel he got from his father. He belonged to the family of woodcarvers known for their flawless sculpting of religious icons—their Madonna really had a virginal face, and the Christ on their crosses was really suffering. Their masterpieces seemed more than real. Their ethereal eyes asked for something otherworldly. Their exquisite fingers begged for salvation and souls. Rodin thought it was because of the varnish and the sun.
In the village peopled mostly by the superstitious and penitents, Rodin grew up a stubborn free thinker. He did not believe the cholera that took more than a hundred lives and spared him when he was ten as a divine punishment. He knew the source—the springs where they got their water and where the animals also quaffed their thirst.
He also dismissed the polio of his sister as the result of the evil eye that stared at her when she was a baby. The health clinic was quite a hike, so his mother did not bother to sweat for her child's vaccination. Rodin blamed his father for selling their horse so he could buy a slab of narra, the priciest wood known for its grain that looked like a map of bleeding veins. He could not understand why a wood could not be just that, a wood.
"You seldom find this kind nowadays," said his father.
"Do you blame the carvers?" Rodin asked.
"No. I blame those rich people who waste the wood to wall their homes."
"How about the poor who burn them to cook their food?"
His father could not answer. He knew his son had a point. Early on, he realized his son possessed a different kind of talent. It was not about holding a mallet or sharpening a chisel but how not to use them. His mother wanted him to become a priest, thinking he was very smart and could easily interpret the Bible and share it with them.
Rodin protested, "I don't want to be a carver or a preacher."
"You're old enough; you need to do something," his mother advised.
"If you don't want to do anything," his angry father said, "go away!"
Rodin left the house, and built himself a small hut on top of the hill his family owned but abandoned. His father was just too busy carving, the only job he knew, and his mother would rather gossip with their neighbors than plant rice and corn. That was what he hated the most among the women in his village. They were a bunch of hypocrites lazily waiting for graces from God. He hated the men too for their fanatic religiosity, which seemed like a monkhood that tied them up to their wood workshops.
For several years, Rodin did not show up at his parents' house steps. He toiled day and night planting narra saplings and watching for marauding boars. A few years later, the hill looked beautiful from afar. Young trees bloomed tiny yellow flowers. To Rodin, they were more beautiful than the ethereal eyes or the exquisite fingers. He continued working. Instead of praying for rain, he diverted the water from ponds and springs. During wet season, he built canals and trenches instead of atoning for the sun.
By the time he reached his late twenties, the timber trees were ready to be logged and sold. It was also the right time to show to his parents what he had done. "This is the sculpture I have carved." He showed them the hill that looked like a forest now. "I'm ready to preach," he declared. After all the trees were felled, the new village rose where men and women looked up the sky not for Him but to see how tall their narra trees were. "Let's build a reservoir, a road, and a hospital." Rodin rallied the people of New Hope.