Paper Swans — Behind the Story

I love the idea that events and people from our lives are interconnected, making patterns that we seldom get a chance to step back and see from a proper vantage point; the idea that what we send out into the world—whether it be kindness or hate—often returns to us.

With most stories, there is a clear link between the moment a story is conceived and the incident or thought that sparked the story.  Sadly, with Paper Swans, I remember mentally creating the plot of the story (almost in its entirety, start to finish), but for the life of me, I can’t recall that certain thing that made the story a conscious thing and brought it to life.  Suddenly I wanted origami and messages to be sent into the world and the story was born.

To those who have known me all my life, there are several recognizable characters and locations within this story.  Like most of my stories, there’s also a bit of me in there.  Here’s a little bit about the central image of “Paper Swans”:

As I have said earlier, I have always had this desire to create and build.  Sometimes it was a ladder, but also it could have been painting or drawing or writing.  My parents recognized this about me from an early age, long before I knew it myself.  I remember taking art classes when I was about five years old with (I think) Lynn Faber from the Rappahannock Community College.  I made a plaster of Paris mold with shells and a host of other projects.  One summer Mom found an artist nearby who would teach painting watercolors and I studied with her.

Another summer, Mom located a lady—perhaps 45 minutes away—who would teach young students Japanese art forms from her home, specifically sumi painting and origami.  Her name was Motoko Williams, and she was one of the kindest, gentlest people on Earth.  Mom would drive me there (I think) twice a week for classes with a few other students.  I was maybe 12 and Motoko seemed close to … ancient.  A small woman with short hair and a pronounced stoop and broken English, her patience and care at her dining room table was pure and simple love.  (And yes, she had a red torii gate over the sidewalk that led to her front door.)  In the very brief time I knew her, she had a profound effect on me.  It is only writing these words now that I realize that I loved Motoko, even though our paths never crossed again.

What a beautiful thing to be able to know: that love comes in many shapes and forms, lasting for moments or a lifetime, and all of them can profoundly affect us.  There are things I wish it had not taken 40 years to realize.

Finally, I hope that dopey 12-year-old thanked Mom for all those lessons she took me to.  There was a lot of love bundled up in all of that—discovering how to nurture a creative a child—as well.