Clay Rose

Fingers dripping with water, clay sticking and drying in the cracks between. I ball a chunk of clay and begin to flatten it across my palm. I work the cracks out, smoothing the edges to a petal shape. 

I bite my lip in absent concentration. The first layer is curled into a thin tube, gently pushed together to show the edges. The next layer is slightly feathered outwards, overlapping the first. 

As I work my way out from the centre, the petals become more and more fragile, bending and splitting as the pressure is applied. 

I'm trying to make a clay rose. So far, my attempts have been futile. My thin clay cracks and crumbling as the layers are applied. In absolute frustration, I grab my work and ball it in my fist, crushing my attempt. I begin again.

I feel like it is a metaphor for who I am. Attempt after attempt to embody the thoughts that dwell within, only to succumb to the weight of drama and disharmony once again. 

I curl outwards, layer after layer of joy, love, peace and hope. My edges begin to crack, there is a day of frustration. I take something personal. Someone lets me down. I smash my broken rose and tumble back into a heap of clay. 

But there is hope. Hope that one day I will rise above, hardened and solid in my will to succeed. I will glaze my edges and paint the colours I wish to show...one day.

And so I start again.