Half-fired Pot
How hard my hand-over-hand combat was
while fending off the world, and sometimes god,
to merely make myself a mark for more
I have been an empty vessel who others have filled
with hate and hard hands, with love that seeped through
and out and away, like you
But I was not hardened by this firing, no,
I am porous and must now find a way
to hold all that comes to me now
Echo in the bowl of my belly, ear to heart,
cell upon cell has seen the face that cried
as she handed over wet clay
to new hands
I would never have been a completed project
nor have a way to hold even family
had I not been brought back to your hearth
So many of us had been flung free, shattered,
been patched and glued, and were missing parts
beyond you: singing bowls of belief
that we could not have nor expect love
Oh, but we did sing alone in the Universe
until someone remembered a stray dab of clay
and brought me home
Knowing, now, how lonely a single voice is,
I attempt to carry what I have allowed to slosh,
to weep out, to fall through this cracked space
I did not know how to keep. I gave out,
forced out, emptied myself of those that cared
because I did not know how to hold
Teach me to gather, to gain, to give without emptying
take hand in my final production
as I am crated back into this thing called family
that has been missing exact mold
of how to really love
See, I have been a lot like you, in many ways
I have touched your broken places, too.
How can one know Love in its entirety if one has been given away soon after birth, taken from breast and given substitutes? I know now why I let things go so easily. I know now why I have allowed such tragedies. I know now why I conformed to travesties. I know how a pot must feel, bereft of it’s maker’s hand.
Those who know me, know that last year my birth family found me. I now have to learn how to really love, to really forgive, to honor my birth mother’s grief and, yes, guilt, and am amazed at how joy can break one’s heart.
I am new to all this kind of love. This is Earth Mother Love. This is like the tale of the Prodigal Son but, in this case, the prodigal mother. I thought I new loneliness, motherlessness…but until I laid my head on her breast and heard that familiar fetal heartbeat, I had no clue…none… about holy love.
Author notes
jpg....picture of my mother's 90th birthday and my 60th celebrated at Vancouver Island July 2007
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Incredible
Truly does sing with spirituality. Such a joy to read. What a perfect way to celebrate.
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you write
we take flight
beneath the wings
of your glorious adventure of thoughts and words.
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A Mesmerizing Masterpiece
So tender, so meaningful, so sorrowful, so truthful,
so soulful, so painful, so hopeful, so YOU!
"Teach me to gather, to gain, to give without emptying
take hand in my final production
as I am crated back into this thing called family
that has been missing exact mold
of how to really love
See, I have been a lot like you, in many ways
I have touched your broken places, too. "
Yes You Have, M'Lady!
You Always Do! ~ Nicky♥
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This is a very touching write. I cannot imagine not knowing my parents. This was a very deep write and one I could feel your pain through. I am glad you have finally found home...Scott
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Thank you, Griswold...my life is mythical and magical...and to have this happen so late means I have a lot of catching up on real
to do....
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