Dear Potter

The Old Fool settles with a groan and a sigh to his familiar place before the writing desk. He adjusts the light and lays out the proud and efficient tools of his trade.

But today these tools will be compelled to betray their daily routine, through no small fault of the Fool's. The impetus he provides this time will drive his constant companions in a radically different direction.

Accustomed to technical drawings and business-like writing, these tools are aghast at their master as he denudes his current intent by the first few words gashed across the virginal page...

"Dear Potter,"

-*Can this be? Can we be truly repurposed so, debasing ourselves to this mundane repast? A personal missive, no less, but even worse - one to Him?*-

The Fool gives a stern glare, grimly setting his jaw, determination apparent in spades. His tools cease their protests, and yield to his task - though still slightly aghast.
but this
"Dear Potter,"

Though firm is his gaze and determined his stare, the Fool knows his attitude is for the benefit of his horrified audience - and nothing more. For as he reads those two words - that beachead on parchment, that breach in the seawall from which the heartfelt words may flow - he knows that even his words will not be sufficient.

"Dear Potter,"

He longs to proceed, he needs to continue, he's compelled to drive on - but this man who has rarely shown fear now shrinks internally away from these two horrifying words. These admissions of weakness, of helplessness, of...he dare not append to this unappealing nomenclature.

"Dear Potter,"

Oh cursed words, nearly mocking in their simplicity! Their existence an abomination to his sense of ability and independence. Their necessity a source of sorrow...and, yes, shame.

"Dear Potter,"

Words fail the Fool...he longs to lay out his plaintive case, his need for strength and succor in a time of endless decay, weakening and disarray. He searches for the words that might arrogate these thoughts with a quiet dignity, and is dismayed to find none.

"Dear Potter,"

Horrid, wretched, vile, hated words! The Fool instinctively tries to abscond from this task, but alas, even that will is no more. The horror before him is irrevocably his to confront and now his devoir.

"Dear Potter,"

And yet, in the midst of this self-pitying angst, an old memory creeps in - careful to wind its way around the fear, frustration, and sheer fever surrounding this task. A memory of lessons long forgotten, and wisdom now rusty.

"Dear Potter,"

What is this bothersome memory? This wisp of life from childhood drifting across the gulf of time and past the shortcomings of recall? It is but one thing, one sentence, two words.

"Dear Potter,"

The two frightening words now have a competing pair. Two words of power, comfort, and assurance. Two words long ago left behind, but abandoned by the Fool, never the Potter.

"Dear Potter,"

"His Clay."

And now, the long, pleading letter...the deep arrogations for clemency, strength, and succor...feel empty and meaningless beside these two words. A simple truth, once forgotten, now replacing the fear.

"Dear Potter,

Help me remember I am merely "His Clay". Your clay. The day may bode long ahead, its shadows menacing and filled with unknowns. And yet, my Dear Potter, please help me remember those two words I had let fall in the chaff and get lost in time. For on my own, these coming days are impossible. But Your Clay has merely the limits YOU give it, nothing more nothing less.

So now, my Dear Potter, I amend my plea, center my request, repurpose my devoir - simply help me remember through these coming days, those two words...so I may rest in the peace they can bring.

His Clay.

Merely and yet supremely, your clay, my Dear Potter. Give me the patience, the will, the endurance, to live up to the challenge. And, Dear Potter - I beg - forgive my insecurities, weakness, and despair.

Always and gratefully,

An Old Fool...His Clay."

The tools slow down, and finally stop, and gaze with new eyes at the sight of their master. Clay...merely clay.

-*He will certainly always be such an enigma, don't you think? Reduced to a clod, a clump, a mud pie, and yet our proud keeper seems bright, happy, serene. A wonder indeed.*-

And thus, with a grunt and a sigh, the Fool rises from the usual place, leaving his perplexed companions behind, and us to boot. So we can ponder together, what is it about this wet earth concept that can bring so much peace?

"Dear Potter," - indeed.






--
The Old Fool

“If liberty means anything at all it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.” -George Orwell.
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