THE TALE OF THE ARTISAN & THE CLAY

An allegory written by Saerlene Swan

In a village of merchants, there was only one artisan, a claymaker who sculpted exquisite works.

The master delicately smoothed and pressed and tugged and molded until his clay became a masterpiece. It was a beautiful ceramic, the finest china there ever was. It was unique on its own—gold with touches of ivory flowers painted near its rims—though he had made many a fine china before.

That night, he slept with his work on his mind, pondering its many uses. He was protective of his pieces, as each one contained a memory he held dearly.

When he returned, he found the piece in an odd state. It remained untouched, but it stood face to face with him, saying, "I am the claymaker."

Baffled, the claymaker, asked, "How is this so? Have you known my purpose for you? Are you not my creation? If each piece bears the glory of a maker, how then, my clay, could you be so? You were known but have not come to be until a fortnight."

But the clay stood fast. "I am the maker. My throne is anywhere I choose—on the finest table in a grand dining hall or in the foyer of a palace. I shall be bought by a rich man and placed among the highest of the high."

The master tilted his head, a quiet sorrow flickering in his eyes. "But did I not make you to be a wedding gift? To uplift the broken and the lowly, and put a smile on one's face?"

“Not so!" the clay refuted. "I know my destiny. I shall travel the seven seas, even to achieve such a dream!"

The master’s eyes widened, a knowing gleam dancing in them. "My, my! What a feat! And how, my clay, would you leave this room if you have no need of me?"

The clay scoffed. "You shall see!"

The master, neither angered nor mournful, only nodded. And so, he stepped aside and let the clay go its way.

But it couldn’t move on its own. It remained in its place, and as time passed, cracks began to show. For the clay had not waited for an added layer to preserve its plasticity. It had declared itself whole before it was complete, and so, left to itself, it began to dry and wither.

The clay sought help, but the master was not present. So, it grew more cracks.

Finally, the master returned with supplies for new pieces, but the clay pleaded, "Look upon me! Do you not see!"

The claymaker set his gaze on the clay, never having lost his love for his creation. "Why wait for me? Are you not the maker?"