The shattered pot

Clayton Powell

The kingdom of heaven is like a Potter who decided to make the most beautiful pot he had ever made. In his workshop, he chose the finest clay and sat down at his wheel to begin work.

He worked with great care and precision to shape the clay into the curves he had imagined. Hour after hour, day after day, he worked on the pot. He added handles and a spout with perfect proportions and elegant form.

Finally, it was complete. The Potter looked at the pot and it was good. It was now time to fire the pot in his kiln to forever fix the shape he had long dreamt of creating.

Then came the long and painstaking work of painting. Such delicate strokes. Such subtle shades of colour. Month followed month. But the day came when the potter took one
final look at the pot and it was good.

The last stage was to add the glaze to lock in the brilliant colours and dazzling whirls. It was now complete and a smile crept onto the face of the potter. It was good. He took his pot and placed it in the centre of his studio on a pedestal. He wanted all who came to his workshop to see his finest pot.

Some time later, a visitor arrived at the workshop. He strode into the room, glaring at the works of art with derision.

"Why are you here?" asked the Potter.

"I have heard of your latest attempt and have come to admire it," sneered the visitor.

His eyes narrowed as he looked down at the pot, taking pride of place in the centre of the artist's studio. The visitor began to slowly circle the pedestal, examining the pot from every angle. "So this is your finest work, is it?"

The Potter said nothing.

"I don't like the rumours about this pot. From now on, they will be talking about me!" And the visitor lashed out with lightning speed, kicking the pot with a savage blow.

The pot shattered, pieces scattered all over the floor. The Potter had not moved.

The visitor's look of glee turned to anger: "Make another pitiful pot-if you dare! I look forward to ‘admiring' that as well."

The Potter watched as the visitor left, flinging a final curse over his shoulder. A tear slid down the Potter's cheek.

The Potter carefully swept up all the pieces of the pot, being careful to find all the fragments hidden under the bench.

He placed them lovingly on the bench in a storage box. The Potter could have made another pot just as beautiful. He had the time-and the patience. But this pot was special to him, irreplaceable. Something that special could never be created again. It would not be the same pot.

Instead, the Potter bent over the box and slowly began to sort out the thousands of pieces of broken pottery, some as small as a grain of sand. He worked carefully, steadily. Weeks passed. Months. It was intricate work. But the Potter knew that pot intimately. He knew every shade, every whirl. And he arranged all the pieces in their original layout.

The Potter knew what needed to be done next. If he glued the pieces together, the pot would not look like it once did. All the cracks would be visible as a fine, spidery web over the entire surface. He wanted the pot to look as good as it had when he had first made it. The pot needed to be healed.

So the Potter took up his carving knife and cut a deep gash along his forearm. The blood oozed thick and dark. He then lifted the first piece of the pot and dipped it in his own blood. He lifted the second and did the same. He then carefully fitted the two pieces together, glued by his own lifeblood.

He continued to work, piece by tiny piece. His arm would be permanently adorned with a lattice work of scars. But the pain did not deter him from his mission. On he worked, until, finally, it was done.

He staggered back, exhausted, to admire his work. It had taken far longer to recreate the pot than to create it in the first place. The Potter could have made many new pots of equal beauty in the same time. But he was happy with his work. He placed the pot back on the pedestal in the centre of his studio. It looked even more brilliant than before. The colours looked more vibrant and alive. They seemed to shift in the light. He looked at the pot and it was good.

The door burst open as the visitor entered abruptly. He glared at the pot in disbelief. His face distorted in rage. "I destroyed that pot!" he bellowed.

"No, you didn't," replied the Potter, "you only wounded it."

"Don't be stupid, old man," the visitor growled. "It is only a pot, a piece of dirt."

"It was never just a pot," said the Potter, "and now it is even more than it ever was. It is now a part of me. And I am a part of it."

"You talk in stupid riddles," the visitor replied, "I said I'd be back." And with that, he suddenly launched himself at the pot, striking it a fearsome blow.

The Potter made no move to stop him but a strange smile crept onto his face. The pot shot across the room, slammed into the wall and fell to the floor-completely undamaged.

The Potter walked across the room, picked up the pot and reverently placed it back on its pedestal. The visitor's mouth fell open. But just as quickly, he flew into a rage, picked up a nearby stool and flung it down with his full strength onto the pot. The stool shattered in his hands. But the pot was unscathed.

"Enough!" said the Potter. "The pot is now a part of me. It can no longer be wounded. You no longer have power over any of my creations. Your reign of fear is over."

The visitor felt the full force of the Potter's words. He ground his teeth in anguish, looking for a way out. But there was no escape. His time had ceased.

The story of the pot spread far and wide. People visited from the surrounding villages, some from far-off countries. They came to admire the pot. But even more, they came to admire the Potter. He made no attempt to hide the spidery web of scars on his forearm. To him, they were a sign of the reconnection he had forged with his creation. It was very good.

Clayton Powell writes from Donvale, Victoria.

This has been a feature from Record, June 6, 2009

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