Clay

Clay: (n) a stiff, sticky fine-grained earth that can be molded

We don’t know anything.

Our science books, a hundred years from now, will be comedy club routines.

Our religions will cause people in the next generation to blush in embarrassment. We are perniciously ignorant because we insist that our
discoveries are so significant that it will be difficult to surpass them.

Yet we are plagued by hypocrisy because simultaneously I-phone 8 immediately needs I-phone 9.

So when you read the ancient text that “God formed man from the dust of the ground,” the poetic nature of the sentiment–and also the significance of understanding how limited our time on “Maple Street” will end up being–leaves out the fact that dust does not cling.

It does not form.

It blows, scatters and crumbles.

So although we may end up being dust somewhere along the line, the story should have informed us that the Creator obviously added his spit.

It was “Daddy spit.” (I know it’s not as famous as Mommy spit.) But it changed dust to clay, which could cling together and form flesh, blood and persons.

So even though I am made of the dust of the Earth, I am emotionally and spiritually held in place by the Saliva of the Most High God.

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Ceramic

Ceramic: (adj) made of clay and hardened by heat.

Having someone talk you into something.

I was guilty of it many times when I was younger. Someone would come in the room with a hard sell on a new idea, and I would feel like an
idiot if I refused to participate.

One of my friends got interested in doing ceramics. Matter of fact, she bought a kiln. I would try to explain to you what a kiln is, but let me just sum it up by saying that it’s a very, very hot oven.

My dear friend decided to coerce me into making a pot.

I did not want to. Yet I felt that my reluctance was a sign of insecurity, so I agreed. She repeatedly explained how simple everything was, as I continued to make it complicated. I finally succeeded in forming my clay into what somewhat resembled a pot, and we put it into the kiln to bake.

After that, things become blurry. There was something about letting it cool, painting it, decorating it…

Let me just say that I did everything she asked me to–ineptly.

At the end of the experience, I had a pot-shaped object which was extremely ugly and looked like it was made by a five-year-old.

She disagreed.

She said it was beautiful. She used the word “unique.” She said she would be proud to have it in her house.

She told me to pick it up next week, after it had the chance to fully… I forget the word. Mature?

I was heading to my car when I realized I had left my hat behind. As I approached the doorway, I heard laughter. I stopped, leaned against the wall and listened.

My friend was explaining to her other pot-makers the experience she had with me, while displaying my work. If the goal of pot-making is to create hilarious laughter, I was superb.

I waited a few minutes until the laughter died down and I went inside to get my hat.

I never returned to get my pot. She called me once, asking me to come pick it up. I told her to use it as an example of what someone does when they reluctantly follow the wishes of a friend.

 

 

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