Here I am again. Back on the Potter’s wheel. I had wandered off, this half finished jar, tried to be what she was not. I could not be filled. Found no satisfaction. Tried to change my shape. Let others twist and pull. But all that happened was pain. More out of shape that before.
And so I limped back, this distorted vase, and stood with my head hanging in the shadow of the Potter.
I felt safe there. Safe to be my disfigured self. And yet as I watched, those gentle hands lifted one by one each mis-shapen, cast away container. He whispered their name. Deftly and skillfully, with loving fingers, worked life and beauty into fragile casts.
For a moment fear rooted me to the spot. I was kind of getting used to the shape that I’d become. It might hurt to change, for my rough edges to be rubbed down. But as I continued to watch this labour of love I realised there was no place I’d rather be than in those hands.
Life’s storms had weathered away my ability to walk and all I could do was fall flat. And hope I rolled in the right direction.
The crash of my descent reverberated around the space. Shame saturated the hole within me. Surely now I was beyond repair.
But then in the midst of my blind despair, I felt security wrapped around me in the form of two scarred hands that lifted me up and up.
I felt like I was flying.
And then, there I was. Held securely on the Potter’s wheel as it began to move and I moved with it.
Control was surrendered. I can’t rely on myself anymore. Been there, done that, got the cracks.
And suddenly I realise I am home. This is where I began, where life was first breathed. This is where my roots lie, where my identity is found.
And as I am moulded and sanded and restored, I feel like life is just beginning again.
Katrina Quinn, Brighton, 2005.