The Sculpture Made of Salt

The stone sculptor stood looking at his material. He had sculpted so many pieces in his time, but this one was different. He knew few would understand, but he would, and so would some others.

The material had been placed in the middle of the town square. It was early, the sun just cresting the horizon. He always did his best work in the morning, while the fog of his mind was just starting to lift but still lingering.

As people walked through the square to get their morning bread and go about their busy lives, they saw the old man standing before the large block of raw, unformed matter, his wooden and iron hammer and chisel in hand.

They wondered what he was going to do. There had been no announcement of a commission, but his work covered the city. Every piece was a monument to the people of this place, to all they had been through and all they aspired to.

A small boy stood outside the baker's shop, perhaps waiting for his mother. He knew the legends that surrounded the old sculptor. He often imagined the statues coming to life and the stories they might tell.

He stared at the old sculptor, waiting for something to happen.

The sculptor continued to stand there, staring into the massive block as though he was listening for something.

Worn wooden ladders stood around the worksite, and a huge brown canvas hung over the entire area. Unlike his other work, this piece would require protection from the storms.

Then the sculptor knew what needed to be done. He approached.

The boy took a small step closer.

The sculptor took his chisel and placed it on the block of salt.

The statue-to-be knew what he was to become. He would stand guard over the entire square for all to see. He felt triumphant in his placement. He would stand for all eternity at the center of the kingdom, a monument to all the master's work, to all the kingdom had achieved.

He would stand tall and proud, arm pointing up to the heavens.

With each tap of the hammer, he felt himself take form, day after day.

At night, when the master rested, he would imagine all the great things he was going to witness, all the inspiration he would give those who passed by. He felt proud and alive.

Each day he felt himself drawing closer and closer to completion. He would finally be all he was meant to be. He could see it now, he was nearly there at his destination.

As he dreamed one night, a great wind blew through the square and clouds gathered in the darkness of night.

The tapered and worn canvas above him flapped in the wind. The slow rhythmic patter of rain sang beautiful songs on the canvas.

He wondered why the sculptor had placed the canvas there.

The rain gained in intensity and drops started to form in the holes of the old canvas. They gently danced, suspended on small strands of tattered canvas.

Then...drip, drip, drip.

The statue felt the drips falling on his almost formed finger. His finger that pointed out to the heavens above that he reached for. It was a cool, somewhat relaxed sensation compared to the heat of the day that came before.

But then something else began to happen. His finger felt wrong, soft, ethereal.

A small fleck fell from his finger, and then another, and another.

What was wrong?

He is stone, rigid, immovable. How can this be!

No, there was certainly something wrong. More of his finger fell away, and more.

He began to panic, not knowing what was happening, and then...his finger fell to the ground into a small pool of water.

He watched it in horror. This is not the future he was to have. He didn't understand.

The finger began to dissolve, to turn to nothing. It disappeared in front of him.

He stood in the gusting wind of sadness, in rigid terror, and in a pool of grief.

The sculptor returned as the sun started to glimpse over the horizon again. The statue focused on the sculptor, trying to understand.

The sculptor stared back.

In the way that statues talk to their artists, the statue asked, 'How can this be? The rain destroyed me.'

The sculptor spoke back to the sculpture in the way artists do, 'You are different. You are not meant to be rigid and unchanging, for you are made of salt.'

The sculptor picked up his chisel and hammer and began again.

He worked for days and days. By now a year had passed. The sculptor fixed the holes in the canvas.

The statue struggled to understand. Why did the sculptor do this to him?

He is a statue, and should be made of stone and marble, unchanging and steadfast. Impenetrable by the elements and change around him. He could not understand.

Then the day came. The work completed, but the statue didn't feel complete. He was made of salt, not stone.

The artist asked the statue, are you ready for the canopy to be removed?

The sculpture cried out and pleaded, No!

If he lost his protection, what would happen to him? He could die, cease to be what he was. Cease to exist. His story would not be.

The sculptor recognized the plea. He smiled and left.

Days and months passed. Each day the artist returned and asked the same question. Is it time to remove the protection of the canopy?

Each day the statue said No.

The statue ever fixated on the canopy that protected him. Every storm could be his last.

He could not understand why the master sculptor would do this to him.

He watched the people go about their lives, looking up at him grasping towards the heavens, one finger missing.

They did not seem to understand why the artist had chosen salt instead of marble or stone any more than the sculpture did.

There was a small garden that the statue would often watch in the square, and in this garden there was a patch of milkweed.

He did not understand why, but he was fascinated by the butterflies that would come to the garden.

He often wondered if the caterpillar knew it was to become a butterfly. What does it feel like to change from one thing to another?

As he thought these things yet again, another butterfly began to emerge.

He felt a sense of joy for the newly formed butterfly, but also this time he felt a release of something run through himself. He remembered what the artist said. 'You are different. You are not meant to be rigid and unchanging, for you are made of salt.'

The artist returned again, asked the same question. The statue responded.

No.

But the statue, after giving the answer, began to feel something different.

He found himself wondering, what would happen if...

Perhaps the story he has told himself of what he is, and who he is supposed to be is the problem. Perhaps he is gripping onto something that is not meant to be.

The artist kept returning. The statue kept replying No.

The people continued to wonder.

The statue fell into a darkness, trying to hold his form, fearing the storm, and not understanding why he was here.

There was a small statue in the garden, made of stone and marble as any statue should be. He would watch as the children played around the statue. He longed to be as solid as that statue.

The children danced and ran, catching the butterflies in the milkweed patches. He thought, about how they did not seem to worry about what they are 'meant' to be like he does. They just seem to be there in that moment.

As he thought about this, a child fell and hit the statue. It began to fall.

When it fell from its high place, it hit the ground with such a force that it shattered into pieces, broken forever and unable to be repaired. The statue wondered how this happened, and what became of the statue after it was discarded. It was as though the small statue was never there, the pieces picked up and scattered, ground and reused.

He was made of salt, though.

The artist returned again, as he always has. The statue said no.

But then the statue thought. What if? Perhaps all the fear he has of the rain is not a fear of the rain, but a fear of what he truly is meant to be.

Some storms gathered in the distance. He stared off into them.

The artist returned. Is today the day to remove the canopy?

The statue answered. Yes.

The canopy was removed. The artist sat in the garden as the storm gathered. All the people that had wondered for so long, peering out the windows and flooding the sides of the streets. All were there for the statue to finally be what he was always meant to be.

The artist shed a tear, not a tear of sorrow, but a tear of joy in what the statue had achieved. A tear of fulfillment.

The rain started. The salt dissolved.

The statue understood. He was always meant to be something more, something boundless and timeless. He would be part of everything, and everything a part of him. All the rigidness that he once thought he was fell away. He no longer thought. He felt.

And the boy?

The boy, now a little older, watched in wonder as the statue transformed into what he was always meant to be. And....for a moment, he felt something release in himself.