Unglazed

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.

UNGLAZED

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.

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5 thoughts on “Unglazed

  1. I can so relate with you about the first paragraph…

    I love the way you wrote this! Grabbed my attention right away, and really made /me/ want to meet your Grandfather, too! =)

  2. This is so beautiful. My dad…my daughter…I feel as though my hand touches his hand and my hand touches your hand and somehow life continues, even though each of us is unglazed…unfinished. But He who said, “It is finished”…has the clay in his hands and somehow it is just the way it should be. And He being the Potter will finish the work He has begun.

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