Looking inward is like dusting off layers and layers of mental noise and dust with a soft brush, working my way ever further down through the traces of lives lived until I finally can unearth the pieces of the clay pot that is me. I keep brushing, slowly, until I have removed all the last remnants of sand and dirt, and the broken pieces lay before me, clean and clear and ready to be put back together.
The puzzle of reassembling that which is broken is the next natural step in the process, but something stops me from doing so. Was there a reason for breaking the pot in the first place? Did it break because it had fulfilled it’s purpose? I realise that breaking the pot didn’t truly break it, it just altered it’s form. All the pieces are now new entities, new shapes, which in themselves are perfect. The clay pot was perfect, and now the pieces are perfect. In fact, they are liberated, they no longer have to fit together to create the vessel. They are free to become new things, to serve new purposes.Read More