A pearl is all swirling softness, nacreous light. Where does it belong? Will you try to flatten or mould it, bending it out of shape until it shatters, like an ugly sister forcing on a glass slipper? Or will you allow it to have its curves and its lunar mimicry, and listen to its wisdom song of beauty made from irritants and toxins?
Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018