Sure, wipe your face with the damp cloth of desperation, you’re human.  But then toss it away and allow your cheeks to dry, at least for awhile.  Ladle stew into your ceramic bowl, violet as dusk, pull your chair near the fire.

Look into memory as if opening the door to a room in a house of your own lost childhood.  Don’t be afraid.  Just observe with the will of an explorer, the daring of an athlete, the surrender of an artist.  Leaf through the pages of the story.  Your memories, heart, name.  The shape of your clay.

Allow the memories to be memories, allow the heart to absolve itself, learn the meaning of your own name.  Allow clay to be reshaped.  Tether yourself to the tree that is truth to you.

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