The Clay Never Hardens

The Clay Never Hardens

THE CLAY NEVER HARDENS

by Nancy Scott

"Who'd have thought I'd be learning a new

language at age 58," Billie says. We are in a van full of blind people going to tour

a local art center called the Banana Factory. Billie is talking about learning Braille.

"I took both Braille classes that the Blind

Association offered. I read very slowly and I suppose I need a lot more practice."

Billie's comments interest me. Knowing Braille

myself, I agree about the need for practice, and offer any help I can give. I then try a

few questions about Billie's life and how she got this far.

Billie was a Lutheran minister doing substitute

preaching while caring for her mother. She also designed and embroidered church vestments.

She started losing her sight in April 1995. By March 1996 she was totally blind.

"Blindness can be frustrating," Billie

admits, "but it is also challenging."

Although she is not yet preaching on a regular

basis, Billie is still active in church affairs. "I can still do things, and I need

to teach other people about blindness." She is in the St. Paul's Lutheran Church

Choir. She is also working on a presentation for a local pastors' group, where she is a

member.

"I reach outside myself. That's the most

important thing to do. I still have to memorize everything or use a tape recorder, but the

Braille will help. Now, I never let anyone finger-stick my Braille-reading fingers."

Billie then turns her attention to more practical

matters. She talks about marinating tomatoes and how we could put a cookbook together as a

fund-raiser. Since I hate to cook, I offer to write the introduction.

"Oh you must know how to make

something," Billie insists.

I think about it and there is my ten-minute tuna

casserole.

This, I know is Billie's spirit of possibility at

work.

At the Banana Factory, where bananas used to be

sold, artists and volunteers happily show us around. They describe the building lay-out,

wall decorations and views of windows.

Some of us spend time with Ben Marcune, an

internationally-known sculptor and painter. He talks about working with Roma

Plastalina—a clay that never hardens.

I want to ask questions, but I'm awed by his

taking so much time with us. By now, you can guess who is brave and wise enough to ask the

first questions.

"Can we feel a piece of your work? What

colors did you use in the painting of Bethlehem?"

Soon, more of us are speaking up. We feel several

sculpted heads, as well as a three-dimensional model of human musculature. By the way, Mr.

Marcune always sculpts humans with their mouths slightly open, so they can breathe.

Surely, this makes him a magical artist.

Later, we check out paper art, stained glass,

baskets and wind chimes. The artists are gracious and patient. Several of them offer to

teach us if we come for classes.

As the van leaves the parking lot, Billie says,

"We have to come back and do real art here. There is energy here. We need a real

challenge. Maybe I could sculpt something. Maybe someone can tell me how to embroider as a

blind person. Or I could bring my Braille writer and work on my children's book. You could

come and write, too."

I can see us at the long conference-room table

with Braille writers, portable computers and tape recorders. There are music rooms, too. I

could practice my tenor recorder and spare my apartment-dwelling neighbors. In fact, I

know another recorder-player who hasn't been to a Blind Association activity in years.

Billie's right. Blindness must not make us think less of ourselves and our possibilities.

We must always want more, and not give up. It is too easy to settle. The clay never

hardens if we keep planning, moving and searching.