The Art of Living

A young child, soft clay to be moulded by numb hands

The clay can take no shape in its soft subtle form

In this pliable state it is fondled, used, forgotten
still taking no form

Listless, shapeless and disfigured the clay is sucked dry and becomes hard

All softness gone it will not be altered

It feels safe in its rigidity;
Lingering unyielding it feels nothing

Its stony surface will not be penetrated

The clay feels secure in its solid form

It endures feeling nothing, it is inanimate

This stagnation becomes an abyss, a nightmare in hades

Yet the clay sees this not in its denial still taking comfort in its dry inflexible construct

Ultimately the clay begins to crack

If it does not become malleable it will cease to exist

In desperation the clay begins to lose some of its stiffness

It feels strange new hands, they are soft and warm

These hands have feeling and love

They shape the clay with caring

It is, oh, so good to feel again, but there is fear

The clay becomes terrified of the unknown touch

It occasionally takes refuge in its strict build once again
becoming solid, unyielding

Until inevitably it begins to crack again

When again despairing it needs to feel the warmth of the loving hands

In this pattern the clayslowly begins to strengthen and take shape

Douglas A. Walker

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