Return to Shodo

It was difficult to return to Shodo class this morning.  It's been about two months for me since I've been there and even longer for Christy.  We warmed up to the idea of drawing black lines with our brushes by opening our kits, pouring our ink, laying down the paper, and talking to one another for two hours.  There's a certain realization of the temporal and fixed nature of life in drawing those lines.  Time creates them, and its expenditure–fast, slow, heavy, light–leaves an imprint on the page.   And also in looking into the eyes of someone you've come to know for two years who will be leaving soon.  Something fleeting and something lasting.  Something breathed and something built.