Perhaps we don’t get to choose the materials
And we won’t be getting any pottery lessons
No proverbial grandmother giving directions, advice  

So we sit, half hesitant half unsure
Facing the wheel and what we have come to accept as our fate
Compliance to life’s ways, no shame  

A chunk of something is then presented to us
And the potter’s wheel starts to spin           – at full tilt
The shapeless material bound to shoot out right about now  

A split-second decision, our hands to the dough
Without noticing, that’s when we start writing this letter
With a language only each of us understands  

We press the clay-like matter – tenderly
Give it time to take shape  
Using the spinning motion to its advantage  

Smooth edges, harmonious lines
Its charm not in perfection, but in oneness
Dignity made vase

And we let our primitive knowledge lead the way
For our unique purpose to find its way
all the while we witness our truth materialize before our eyes