She reaches for her hammer, her trusted friend since she began this other life. This life which sustains her, keeps her heart beating.
Intuitively she begins to strike the metal. Each rhythmic tap follows another until she is ready to soften it once more, to gently coerce it back to a point where she starts all over again. There are no distractions, this practice is meditative. There is only a dialogue between each hammer blow and the piece she works on. The pungent smell of metal, her weathered and blackened hands, her tools that sit on her bench, no glamour, just a sense of who she is, her lifeblood.
- Sylvia Nevistic September 2009