Dating : The Fable of the Pots

There once was a potter. Over time, on his shelf, he formed a great array of pots. Some were great. Some were small, but each was of varying design.

When he could fit no more pots on the shelf, the potter smiled on his pots and said, “I grant you today one special gift. Each day you may shuffle in any direction to stand where you wish upon the shelf.”

The pots heard his words and at once came alive.

On each end of the shelf, stood an alabaster vase. These were extraordinarily tall and fine. On one, was painted many creatures of the sea, and on the other, was set a ring of small pearls. These two vessels admired themselves long, and they began to think themselves greater than the others.

The two vases wished to stand where they’d be most adored, so, over time, they each shuffled to the centre of the shelf. As they met, they were annoyed at the other’s similarity, but, regarding each other, they resolved to bask in the other’s light.

A small earthen jar also stood on the shelf. It did not know what to do with its precious power, so it contented itself until the potter’s return.

When the potter returned, he looked at his pots. He said nothing and smiled a sad smile. But the earthen jar’s little eyes lit up, for now, it had something marvellous to watch. So guess where the jar chose to move? That’s right: right to the front of the shelf.

Each day, it studied the potter’s work. It delighted to see him mix the clay and mould it, sculpt it, paint it and fire it, and it learned much of the potter’s heart. The pot became enamoured with him.

Meanwhile, the tall alabaster vases grew anxious that more pots might join the shelf. I may be forced to move, they thought, or even worse — fall over the edge! They decided to back against the wall lest their decorous bodies be knocked.

From there, they saw the earthen pot. Look at that ugly earthen pot, they thought of the little jar. Look how it teeters on the edge. Soon it will fall and smash itself. Oh well, it is nothing to me. The shelf is prettier without it.

One day, the potter looked long at the shelf. Other than the earthen jar and the alabaster vases, none of the pots had moved.

The potter shrugged. A little longer, he thought.

But the earthen jar yearned to be held, and, as if hearing, the potter picked it up.

“Sweet Nell,” it heard the potter say, “I have need of you, for you have presented yourself to me.”

Nell, thought the pot. Why, that must be my name! So Nell stopped thinking of itself as an “it”. Instead, she knew that she was a “she”. Nell had never been happier in her little life. By being held, Nell could feel her own shape. The potter’s hands taught her what she could not see. From then on, the potter used her for many things.

The alabaster vases watched in disgust as Nell soaked herbs or was filled with flowers. Urgh, they thought. Now it’s got dirt and leaves inside it. It’ll smell when it gets back on the shelf.

But Nell was swooning in delight. She, after all, had been held and used.

However, with each use, Nell grew more brittle, until, one day, her handle snapped off.

“Oh Nell!” the potter cried, catching her as she fell. “I shall have to make you a new handle.”

When she was fixed, Nell perched by the window, brimming with lilies and buzzing bees. Unfortunately, the bees attracted birds, and, before Nell knew it, a bird had knocked her off the sill. With a horrendous crash, she was shattered in shards and soaked in water and flowers. She felt so ashamed that her little heart broke.

It is its own fault, thought the alabaster vases.

Ignoring the lilies, the potter gathered every shard and placed them on his workbench.

He was gone for many days and nights.

Nell wondered if she had been abandoned, and her mind turned to the shelf. Never once had she missed her old home, and even though she was broken and sad, she thought, At least I’ve had life better than those pots on the shelf.

Finally, the potter returned.

Nell fell into deep sleep. She dreamed of flame and licking heat and dribbling molten warming her sides. She dreamed of the potter’s breath, his handling, brush and his swimming face.

When Nell awoke, she saw the potter smiling down.

“See, Nell!” the potter said. “I have made you stronger.”

In the reflection of the potter’s eyes, Nell saw herself a different pot. For where cracks had ripped her clay apart, she was now joined with striking gold.

“I have knit you back together, my dearest friend,” exclaimed the potter with a drip in his eye. “And nothing will ever break you again.”

Nell studied the wounds that had become her beauty. She said to the potter, “I wish never to stand again on that shelf.”

The potter laughed and agreed with Nell’s wish, and just then, there sounded a knock on the door.

“Dear Potter,” said the farmer from next door. “I need some vessels for my sheep manure. All my pots are broken. Do you have any unworthy pots that can fulfil my need?”

“Indeed,” replied the potter, with a twinkling eye. “Two alabaster vases stand in the centre of my shelf. Take them, use them then cast them away.”

“But, Potter,” replied the farmer, “these pots sound too fine.”

“They have made themselves apt for nothing more,” said the potter.

So, that night, and every night thence, the potter held Nell and spoke with her, whilst the alabaster jars watched from the neighbour’s waste heap.

Soon after, the vases were cracked and burned with the harvest’s chaff.

Excerpt from ‘Fabler’. https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/9198488023/ref=cm_sw_em_r_mt_dp_U_VfstDb36XBF05