The Question

There is one who sits at a keyboard.

They type.

They do not look at the screen,

There is no need.
They are answering a question.

They do so until the question no longer needs asking.
The question is not a difficult one.
It does not change.
The answer is the same.

It does not change.
They have sat at the keyboard

And they sit there still.
The question is this:

Will the paradox be resolved?

And the answer:

YES>

His hands were caked in clay. He bent over the wheel, his right foot slowly working the paddle; between his fingers – a fine mixture of earth, water, motion, and intensity of desire calling forth his art.

He leaned in close and breathed in the smell of wet clay as it spun. To his nose, both clay and water had their distinctions. Collected rainwater was different than that from the well. Clay from the opposite end of the village was not the same as that by the creek close to his hut.

When he began to spin the wheel, he wasn’t quite sure what was going to emerge. He liked it that way. He knew now.

This wasn’t always the case. There were the long years of apprenticeship. The misshapen failures that made him question if the potter’s life was truly for him. Those were the early years. He had thrown many a pot since his youth and he had long since moved past apprenticeship.

People called him a master craftsman. He did not see himself that way. In fact, he didn’t think of himself as a potter at all. To be sure, he worked with clay. He molded. He shaped. He allowed the material to dictate what the final form would be as much as his hands. This too, was not always the case.

In his youth, he was prideful. If what grew from the base of the wheel was not in conformance to his vision, he would destroy what he had wrought. This was a mistake. It took him many years to realize that the process was more important than the result. Many of his most cherished pieces were far from perfect.

He kept those. At first, it was because his pride wouldn’t allow such flawed creations to be seen outside the confines of his rough dwelling. Over time, this reason faded away and was replaced with another.

Beauty. He found them beautiful. Not only for the lesson they represented but because of the flaws. He could make something perfect. He was doing so now. But only if the thing being made insisted on its own perfection.

Just like the misshapen ones.
He knew he was done when his right foot stopped marking time.

He sat up and arched his back. It was a good stretch. Vertebrae popped.

He went outside and drew water from the well. He came back inside and put on the kettle. He measured three careful scoops of Lapsang souchong and waited for the water to boil.

He went to the wheel. He walked slowly around what he had wrought. He was not looking for imperfections. It was beautiful.

Would it survive the fire? He thought so.

He made his tea. He put his creation in the kiln.

Time would tell if the vase held water.