The old woman artist, mother of my mother, sat still beside a window in her studio.

Looking out into the world beyond, she spoke to me in a soft, familiar hush like rustled grass.

And as if to the air, the heavens and the shadows, in a her litany borne of age and wisdom said:

"Luckily, I had some teachers who changed my life.

They saw in me a child of wonder and of promise.

For at that time of beginnings, it was an image I had pushed far away from myself.

With great gentleness and kindness they took me by my hand, and heart, and mind

And led me through great doors too large for small children to open.

They knew, beyond these doors, I would glimpse the image of my true self.

There would be my destiny and the future visions of my imaginings.

Through those portals of splendor, I met the flurried magic of art and music and the rhythmed words of ancients.

There were such patterns, sounds and sights that struck me all but dumb in their resplendence.

And in those special places were the surprises and connections to my inner self.

Through the efforts of those dedicated few I entered new worlds of wonder and achievement, to find at last my soul's own voice.

It was they who let me look upon their magic mirrors, thus finding the vision of my special face."

Then she turned to me, smiling and pointing to her still wet wares, her prizes and the children of her imagination, said:

"All of this has been possible because of them.

My child, remember well, for you have chosen a profession that has great power.

Learn to use that power well."