Livora Gracely

It’s easy to hold a brush.
Harder to write the fewest strokes that mean the most.

Mira had been given the largest brush in the studio.

This was unfortunate.

Large brushes attract expectations.

The brush stood nearly as tall as she did and had a bamboo handle thick enough to make several respectable flutes. The old calligrapher placed it beside her without ceremony.

“Write faith,” he said.

Mira looked at the enormous sheet of white paper.

Then at the brush.

Then back at him.

“How much?”

“One word.”

“That seems wasteful.”

The old man nodded.

“Paper often feels that way.”

Mira lifted the brush.

Immediately, three students moved closer.

A cat left the windowsill.

Even the kettle appeared interested.

Mira dipped the bristles into black ink and began.

Her first attempt was magnificent.

It had flourishes.

It had confidence.

It had two unnecessary curves, one dramatic splash, and something in the lower corner that looked suspiciously like a duck escaping a storm.

The old man studied it.

“Very energetic.”

“Is it faith?”

“It is certainly committed.”

Mira tried again.

The second version was smaller.

The third was careful.

By the fourth, she had discovered a serious problem.

The more she tried to make faith look convincing, the less convincing it became.

At noon, she put down the brush.

“I don’t think the brush trusts me.”

The old man poured tea.

“Does it need to?”

Mira frowned.

That was an irritatingly economical question.

She walked outside.

When she returned, the studio was empty. The students had gone to lunch. The cat had remembered an appointment elsewhere. Even the kettle had stopped offering opinions.

Only the blank paper remained.

Mira picked up the brush.

This time she did not try to make the character beautiful.

She did not try to make it impressive.

She simply wrote:

信

One character.

Then she stepped away.

The old calligrapher returned carrying two bowls of noodles.

He stopped.

Looked at the paper.

Then looked at Mira.

“Well?”

she asked.

He handed her a bowl.

“That one can stand without you.”

Mira looked again at the black character.

Nothing glowed.

Nothing moved.

No mysterious wind entered the studio.

This was mildly disappointing.

Then the enormous brush beside her slowly tipped forward.

Mira caught it just before it hit the floor.

The old man continued eating.

“Good,” he said.

“What?”

“You trusted your hand.”

Mira stared at the brush.

Then at the single character.

Apparently faith had passed its test.

The brush had nearly failed its balance.