Make the Cow

One of my good friends, Elizabeth, is probably the most erudite, cosmopolitan person I personally know. Another daughter of the great Midwest, Elizabeth is a world traveler, fluent in several languages, successful in a variety of vocations. She also is a creative, instinctive cook; a fluid writer and a gracious hostess with a distinct style aesthetic that can be seen in every room she inhabits. Even her offices.

As it often happens to people with multiple abilities, the weight of all that talent can bog a person down. She tells a story from her childhood that illustrates the burden of that choice:

Back in grade school, Elizabeth's efforts to craft a cow from modeling clay caught the attention of her teacher. She, along with a few other selected students, was given the privilege of taking their clay home so that they could have additional time to perfect their creations.

Elizabeth's mother, a savvy, frugal and practical woman, looked on as her child continued to sculpt her bovine statue. "It's nice," her mom said, "but what do you do with it? Maybe if it was part of an ashtray or something..."

So Elizabeth, wanting to please her mom, divided the clay so that there was enough for an ashtray to attach to the cow.

The teacher expressed her dismay the next day at school. "Why did you do that?" she cried. "It was beautiful before. Now I don't know what it is."

As Elizabeth spends more time on her creative pursuits, she gets frustrated when her efforts to find more practical, money making applications interfere with her aesthetic vision. As though no one ever bought a piece of art for its sheer beauty, or bought a book for its ability to transport the reader to a different state of being.

The way I see it, sometimes you should just forget about the ashtray. Just make the cow.