Back in the day when faith was just beginning to dawn in the collective unconscious, a Man and a Woman lived in a huge round house on the edge of an open prairie. Just close enough, and just far enough away from the village. On days when the sun seemed extraordinarily high, or nights when the moon was unusually full, all the members of the community would gather together in the house, stand in a circle, face one another, and let their guards down.
The Man was a master of the visual arts. If there was something so beautiful you just couldn’t imagine seeing it, he could paint, or sculpt or tile it. His work was created to celebrate the glory of the circle. When he worked, it was like offering a prayer; and when people would see what the Man created, they would fall to their knees in awe.
The Woman was a master of the musical arts. If there was something so exquisite you just couldn’t imagine hearing it, she could compose, play or choreograph it. Her work was created from beyond the circle, lifted up from the grace of the prairie. When she worked, her spirit soared; and when people heard what the Woman created, they would raise their arms in exultation.
He saw the Mountain. She saw the Journey.
Early on in their relationship, they decided not to discuss work…they just saw things too differently. But, you know how it is with such agreements. It was late, they were tired, and he really just wanted to tell her about an incredible idea.
The Man was going to capture “it,” that ineffable something, the delight of the Creator in his Creation, in a work so fine that all creatures bow in praise.
Well, it turns out the Woman was also planning to capture “it,” that ineffable something, the delight of the Creator in her creation, in a work so fine that all creatures rise up in ecstasy.
It got ugly.
At least this was also before art criticism, so there wasn’t a lot of backseat driving.
They ended up challenging one another. Each would create “it,” that ineffable something, each would express the delight…then they’d find someone to judge.
The Man painted and sculpted, collaged and printed—the inside and the outside of the house were awash in all the colors and textures of creation.
The Woman composed and choreographed and directed—sound and movement ebbed and flowed without bound.
It was good. Each was pleased. But, who to judge? They knew they shouldn’t, but they called on their Child, a master of the verbal arts. If there was something so moving, the words would escape you, the Child lured them into poems and prose and drama, extolling glory and grace. When people read or heard words the Child created, they would fall silent.
Everywhere in and around the big round house on the edge of the prairie, color and sound pulsed. People knelt in awe. People raised their arms in exultation.
“This looks like a great celebration, but I’ve really got to go find the word. You should invite some folks.”
With that…the Child wandered off, doodling words in the air. The Man and Woman, well, what could they do? They laughed. They embraced. And they invited their entire community to gather in a circle, face one another, let their guards down and celebrate the delight.
