The Potter and the Clay Written by Bambi Lynn

He is the potter, and I am the Clay. Like every statement or word picture we come up with, they all sound so beautiful until... Until we are the clay, until we are the broken glass, until we are the paper that gets painted on, until we are the ones that are asked, "will you climb on the wheel?' We make statements like this not really comprehending the process of being molded or chiseled.

The Potter is trying to create a masterpiece, something that he can take home and display for all to see and admire. The masterpiece has been created by his hands. The Potter has an idea, and he sees in his creative mind; he attempts to fashion the way he sees it. Each time he puts his hand around the clay and smooths his hands over the clay, he is admiring his piece, only for it to fall apart again and again. Perfection is in his thoughts. putting his dream to reality is harder than he ever thought. The potter thought the clay would form the way he imagined. Only to fall apart again. The potter wants to give up, but too much is at stake now. The investment is too valuable, and the clay is moldable now. No chance to give up now. Too much of his time has been spent in preparation for this masterpiece to come together, for all to see and admire the process from a lump of clay to a symbol of his thoughts.

I have felt this way so many times. Sometimes I have been a potter as I was raising children. I have felt the responsibility on my shoulders. I have dreamed of the outcome and have been awakened to see the wheel empty. I picked it up and molded it again and again. I experienced the clay falling off the wheel and having to pick it up again, to water it so it will smoothly mold into what I have fashioned in my dreams as the outcome. Some of my finished products, I saw the cracks that I forgot to fill in. I tried to have the work be displayed for the world to see. The masterpiece of each child as they walked out the door as a cracked pot but, succeeded anyways in spite of my terrible job being the potter with them on the wheel of life. I spent years fixing my imperfections as the potter and realized over and over again, that I am not the true potter, and he alone will fix what I messed up.

I have been a spectator in someone else's time on the wheel. I have watched the potter gently pick up the clay and mold someone in such a gentle and kind way. I have watched him chisel away parts that weren't needed anymore, but they were holding on for dear life to keep what was being chiseled and molded to disappear and have something else be created, I have watched the tears be what the potter uses to soften the clay. I have seen the gentleness of the potter as his hands showed nothing but love as he fashioned something more beautiful than before. I have wanted to take that person away from the potter so many times. But I was steadfast in my wait for the potter to finish and see he had her all along.

There have been times that I have been the apprentice, being trained on the wheel. I thought that pottery would be easy, taking a life and molding them in a masterpiece was easy. I figured at times that "I got this" only to see how hard the process really was. The potter has to work with all the imperfections of the clay. He has to look at each part and see what stays and what goes and what must be remolded. The Potter taught me to be gentle with each piece and not to treat them the same. Most may have similarities but are uniquely made to represent themselves. The potter has taught me that each one needs special care in different areas, and I am to look closer and never assume. The potter taught me to use my hands gently and to use my eyes keenly. If I saw anything that made me hurt, to use those feelings and tears in creating a new masterpiece. Don't be afraid of your feelings, the potter would say, as that is what creates empathy when the masterpiece is finished and ready to go into the world and talk about the goodness of the potter's wheel.

I have feared the potter's wheel so many times, as I have been gently nudged more times than I ever wanted. I have tried to kick and scream and to plead with the potter so many times because I knew the work that had to be done. I knew of the chiseling and the molding and refashioning of the clay. I knew that the potter would be as gentle as he could, but it was still going to be painful. I knew he would take his time and never take away things that he knew I needed, but he also would be removing things he thought didn't serve the purpose of the masterpiece he was creating. I knew he would take his time and not rush the process as he looked at me with compassionate eyes and a loving heart. I knew he would be bottling up the tears I would shed as I thought the pieces he was molding differently should have stayed part of me. I saw him take some of those tears as he was creating different pieces of me. I saw him catch my tears as they fell, I saw his softness as I asked, "why" never once was he rough with me and slamming around the clay and using his hands roughly as he molded me and chiseled away. He showed me grace and compassion. He knew I had grown fond of some of the things he was reshaping and taking away. He was gentle with his words as he explained why things stayed and why other things were gone. I was excited when the potter told me he was done. He asked me to slowly remove myself from the wheel. Don't move suddenly because I had been through some stuff that for a moment would set my balance off. I took a moment, and he took my hand and led me to the mirror. The gentle potter whispered in my ear, "you are perfect and a reflection of me"