Waking up in the middle of the morning, as an only child is a very quiet experience. I would continue to lay down and analyze the information I was receiving from my ears. Waking up seemed to give me supersonic. The ambience that cooed me were the sounds of trees moving to the wind, random insects buzzing, sometimes a helicopter or the back door sliding open, and lastly my dog lucky’s chain pacing up and down the side of the backyard.

My memories don’t recall the sound of my mother or father, maybe they were around but no one took notice of  me once I woke up so I never noticed them either. I would typically look in the kitchen to see if there was any breakfast, then I would immediately go to the backyard and play.

The backyard had plum trees, guava trees, a bamboo grove, an herb garden, a pond which gold fish and one single catfish, there was a chicken coup and a tree house. In my tree house I decided to start a bakery, a mud bakery. I’m not sure what possessed me to mix dirt and water but it felt natural. Maybe watering all the plants in my backyard and seeing the dirt turn into different malleable consistencies, planted that seed – pun intended.  I took my grandfather’s shovel and dug up some dirt, put it in a bucket and filled in with some water from the hose. Mud seemed safe and clean to me, as long as you didn’t get any grass or rocks in it.

I started to sculpt from the clay in my yard cakes, cupcakes, ice cream cones. I even began to garnish my clay replica food items with the mints and herbs and plums that were in the backyard. I began to get my cousins to critique my work.

I got pretty crafty with molding clay at the age of six simply out of boredom and the necessity to create with the mediums that were available to me. These humble beginnings are a reminder to me that I love to create.

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