Her hands run through my mind in long, subtle movements with palms and fingers gently touching the surfaces. Jagged areas that poke about are gently smoothed down. Fingers pressing here and there. Palms pressing inward and moving upward. The clay runs through her fingers like water breaking through a damn, covering her hands in moods of long agos, moods of yesteryears and the moods of just happens.
In her skillful way, the potter reshapes my mind into a quiet haven. A place of solace to replace the crumbled remains of what once stood a great temple but had succumbed to decay. During its glory, it was magnificent with peaks that soared beyond the clouds, and a moat so deep, it kept invaders at bay. Ultimately, as with all stories such as this, the beautiful temple imprisoned her.
The potter’s hand moves gracefully through my mind smoothing out lines and slowly revealing willing surfaces. She creates open doors instead of deep trenches. Instead of soaring, the clay gently ascends.