I take another woman out of the box, remove her clear plastic bubble wrap, and place her on my dining table next to her stoneware sisters. Two recline in front, resembling wet, moss-covered logs. I am birthing a forest of women, some deep-brown, rough, bare-bark-skinned, some glazed shiny-smooth cobalt black. They await the guests of my first home art show with a prayer that my work will inspire women walking through their own woods. I send an Instagram: “My mini Women’s March.”
When I first shaped a cylinder into a female torso, with breasts, belly and tush, my classmates celebrated my “novel” idea, but for tens of thousands of years, people revered the feminine and made fertility art. I’m part of a resurgence, inspired and compelled to form and feel the universal curves from which we’re all birthed. I’ve made well over a hundred pieces, each one a vessel. I too am a vessel, a container, with space inside for creating life. This is magic. But it’s not just the form that draws me.
When my hands are in clay, all is well. Thoughts, like distant clouds, have no effect on my serenity. I am where I belong, doing some part of what I am here to do. My friend Debby, who knitted a dozen hats with kitty ears, said she went to the march to “be an ant, because a lot of ants can move a mountain.” I am an ant and I am not alone.
Colleen, who has no biological children, founded a non-profit, where she teaches ballet to kids with Downs Syndrome. Belle holds a monthly, uncensored, women’s Soul Salon; Greta hosts a new moon Red Tent on her boat where, as each woman introduces herself, she lights a candle in a translucent porcelain luminary which I make and provide for this purpose. My daughter volunteers on Skid Row, performs social-activist comedy and refuses to make any decision based on fear—hers or mine. Deena holds a monthly, African-inspired Daré, where we share broken hearts and inspired dreams.
Then there are behind-the-scenes ants: My single mother moved to L.A. with her teenage girls and held down two jobs to give us each our own room. My sister fills her house with pictures of us and things I’ve made for her, giving me silent strength.
Men march, too: Dennis drapes red satin over every inch of the boat’s tiny living room for Greta’s Red Tent and buys us roses; Fred holds a weekly Medicine Dance; Miguel pours water at the prayer lodge; and Bear brings me organic groceries.
We are all ants. We march on the streets and in our homes. We march when we embrace, when we witness each other’s tears, turn them to laughter, and keep going.
I honor the women and men who went to Pershing Square. I applaud our sisters and brothers at Standing Rock. I also honor those who pick up litter, hold the door for the next person, put the seat down, and tell the truth, those who, in big ways and in small, continue to march at home.
After my show, Stephanie, who’d driven here from Bouquet Canyon and picked up my mom along the way, takes us both to dinner. We toast the success and power of women and our art and I share that I am making bowls for The Topanga Women’s Circle, who furnish transitional housing for homeless women and children.
Please contact me if you’d like to add your name to my list of donor ants, and thank you for marching with me.
Sage Knight is a mother, a writer, an artist, a woman. She lives at Top o’ Topanga with her dog, Shiloh. She welcomes your heartfelt communication: (818) 264-6163.
