It feels like forever since I’ve posted. And yet it isn’t. Not even a month. I feel compelled to write here…though I don’t know why. I’ve opened up the “New Post” page quite often, and even started a draft or two…and that is all. I want to write…but I have nothing to share. I have much to share…but nothing to write.
If that didn’t make sense to you, don’t worry. It may very well be non-sensical. But it makes sense to me….possibly because I’m living it. Not that “living it” makes everything make sense. I wish that were true though…truly, I do!
I feel like I could go on and on in this same rambling way today. But I’ll not. Instead…I’ll share one of the assignments I wrote for the writing class I took. It’s over already, can you believe it? I miss it! I think I must take another. Yes…I think I must.
A small terra cotta pot sits on the shelf. Imperfect. Amateur. Unglazed.
I cradle it in my hands, feeling the rough ridges of the clay, placing my thumb over the impression of a misplaced fingerprint, wondering why it is unfinished.
I visualize the strong, thick hands of the man I never met, but whose eyes I have stared into, soaking up the twinkle that I see in the the old black and white photographs from the years before I was born.
He was handsome. Strong. Laughing. Loving.
He had a space between his teeth…and he left that to me. I never heard his voice, felt his hug, smelt his aftershave. He died too young, a few months before I was born…
His life seems unfinished. Unglazed.
Turning the pot over, I use my finger to trace the initials on the bottom…R.H. Robert Holland. My grandfather. I wonder why I never met him. And how life would be different if I had. But that is the past. And those questions are futile.
I form a pot…the wet clay molding to my fingers as the wheel turns. I am also a vessel. Being molded and formed and fired. I want to be used…to be loved…to fulfill the purpose The Potter has…
For now, I am imperfect. Amateur. Unglazed.