Potters know that not only does each kind of clay respond differently to
shaping, but each individual pot responds differently. A potter's hands have to
pay attention to the feel of the clay and adjust the kind of pressure they're
applying accordingly. The act of shaping a pot is as much an act of listening
and attending to the clay as it is coaxing it into a pre-visioned shape. The
best potter is a master of improvisation. She has to be ready to revision the
shape of the piece, and pull back some of the pressure if the walls begin to
get too thin in places. If she tries to force a shape that the clay won't
support, the whole piece just flops and it's back to the kneading board.
Patience and openness to change are as vital to beautiful art as the technical
skill required.
Envisioning our vocational life is much the same process. The pressures of life can bear down on us and shape us often without our even realizing it. The further we move into adulthood the more we are asked to choose, not between a simple good vs. bad, but rather between multiple goods. We want to provide good things for our family; we want to support the dreams of our spouses; we want our parents to be proud of us; and we want to belong to a good community. Parker Palmer claims that our efforts to respond to such pressures can lead to a "divided life, He says, "The instinct to protect ourselves by living divided lives emerges when we are young, as we start to see the gaps between life's bright promise and its shadowy realities...As the outer world becomes more demanding--and today it presses in on children at an obscenely early age--we stop going to our rooms, shutting the door, walking into the wardrobe, and entering the world of the soul. And the closer we get to adulthood, the more we stifle the imagination that journey requires...Because imagining other possibilities for our lives would remind us of the painful gap between who we most truly are and the role we play in the so-called real world."(A Hidden Wholness, pp. 14,15)
I find myself at just the juncture to which Palmer refers--between the realities of the world, which make greater demands on both our time and finances, and the vision I imagine for myself when I let myself really dream aloud. It's exciting to offer my own particular gifts. But it isn't always easy to use those gifts and be present for my family in the way that they need me. So now I have a choice. I can flop, or I can improvise. The proverbial walls may seem a bit thin, but life is like clay after all; It is malleable and yearning to find a shape, if I'm open, patient, and creative enough to listen; if I can attend to the emerging shape of things; if I am willing to improvise.
Sometimes the hidden gift of dead ends is that they force us to turn around, to change direction, and to look for other access roads. The hidden gift of the "thin places" is that we are forced to mine our own creative resources in new ways. As potter and theologian Marjory Zoet Bankson notes, "As the wall gets thinner, my options narrow because certain moves cannot be reversed without collapsing the entire form. Each decision, each direction, makes a difference. As my hands keep the clay in tension, the body of the clay takes on an individual shape. My vision of the finished pot is especially important...even though the pot is far from finished. While there is still room for change, my intention comes strongly into play, giving the pot identity and purpose." (This Is My Body, p 96)
Improvising when much is at stake is never fun or easy, at least at first. It's nerve-racking and unsettling. But sometimes we need to be unsettled and disoriented in order to pay attention to our lives, to hear the whispers of our souls, and to discover the source of real strength. Real strength is not the bill of goods the world has sold us. Real strength isn't about coming up with a plan and stubbornly clinging to it, despite the collateral damage. Real strength emerges when we not only embrace our gifts and aptitudes, but our limitations as well. Real strength emerges when we know how to ask for help and can accept help as a gift, without worrying about how we will repay it. Real strength emerges when we hear a host of voices in our head telling us why we aren't enough, but we can listen to the One voice that reminds us we are more than enough, just as we are. Real strength is not a big concrete, steel-reinforced wall, but a handmade pot that has been fired, survived, and was made stronger. It's not indestructible, but it is open. Its identity is not grounded in what it keeps out, but rather in what it holds. It's not perfect, and it very likely isn't the shape its potter originally intended, but the bread it can hold is no less than life itself. The water it can contain is no less than Living Water. In its simplicity it calls us to partake; to eat and to drink, and to become just what we were intended to be.
Envisioning our vocational life is much the same process. The pressures of life can bear down on us and shape us often without our even realizing it. The further we move into adulthood the more we are asked to choose, not between a simple good vs. bad, but rather between multiple goods. We want to provide good things for our family; we want to support the dreams of our spouses; we want our parents to be proud of us; and we want to belong to a good community. Parker Palmer claims that our efforts to respond to such pressures can lead to a "divided life, He says, "The instinct to protect ourselves by living divided lives emerges when we are young, as we start to see the gaps between life's bright promise and its shadowy realities...As the outer world becomes more demanding--and today it presses in on children at an obscenely early age--we stop going to our rooms, shutting the door, walking into the wardrobe, and entering the world of the soul. And the closer we get to adulthood, the more we stifle the imagination that journey requires...Because imagining other possibilities for our lives would remind us of the painful gap between who we most truly are and the role we play in the so-called real world."(A Hidden Wholness, pp. 14,15)
I find myself at just the juncture to which Palmer refers--between the realities of the world, which make greater demands on both our time and finances, and the vision I imagine for myself when I let myself really dream aloud. It's exciting to offer my own particular gifts. But it isn't always easy to use those gifts and be present for my family in the way that they need me. So now I have a choice. I can flop, or I can improvise. The proverbial walls may seem a bit thin, but life is like clay after all; It is malleable and yearning to find a shape, if I'm open, patient, and creative enough to listen; if I can attend to the emerging shape of things; if I am willing to improvise.
Sometimes the hidden gift of dead ends is that they force us to turn around, to change direction, and to look for other access roads. The hidden gift of the "thin places" is that we are forced to mine our own creative resources in new ways. As potter and theologian Marjory Zoet Bankson notes, "As the wall gets thinner, my options narrow because certain moves cannot be reversed without collapsing the entire form. Each decision, each direction, makes a difference. As my hands keep the clay in tension, the body of the clay takes on an individual shape. My vision of the finished pot is especially important...even though the pot is far from finished. While there is still room for change, my intention comes strongly into play, giving the pot identity and purpose." (This Is My Body, p 96)
Improvising when much is at stake is never fun or easy, at least at first. It's nerve-racking and unsettling. But sometimes we need to be unsettled and disoriented in order to pay attention to our lives, to hear the whispers of our souls, and to discover the source of real strength. Real strength is not the bill of goods the world has sold us. Real strength isn't about coming up with a plan and stubbornly clinging to it, despite the collateral damage. Real strength emerges when we not only embrace our gifts and aptitudes, but our limitations as well. Real strength emerges when we know how to ask for help and can accept help as a gift, without worrying about how we will repay it. Real strength emerges when we hear a host of voices in our head telling us why we aren't enough, but we can listen to the One voice that reminds us we are more than enough, just as we are. Real strength is not a big concrete, steel-reinforced wall, but a handmade pot that has been fired, survived, and was made stronger. It's not indestructible, but it is open. Its identity is not grounded in what it keeps out, but rather in what it holds. It's not perfect, and it very likely isn't the shape its potter originally intended, but the bread it can hold is no less than life itself. The water it can contain is no less than Living Water. In its simplicity it calls us to partake; to eat and to drink, and to become just what we were intended to be.
