Some people seem born with the truth of themselves clear in front of them, or inside of them, or wherever it survives. I imagine these people as shiny, glazed urns with snug fitting lids. They are beautiful, smooth, and certain. Their perimeters are defined.
If I am an urn, I am porous. Not yet glazed. My lid is elsewhere, drying in the sun at a different rate and not ready, yet, for use. Things move through me – invisible and real – thoughts, ideas, opinions. Fears, anxieties, beliefs. I have no perimeter and cannot tell which of these things are mine, so I let them all in, for a while.
There is a beauty in porousness, and a burden. Cradling the stuff of others, for as long as they need, or until I can’t anymore. I spent years waiting, wondering if it was time yet for glaze, time to put the lid on, time to stand shiny and certain in my truth. But it has been many decades and everything still spills out and in.
I look at the glazed others. We’ve all taken on weight; all manage it in different ways. Some are cracked and fearful of the seepage. Some have built up layers over time and cannot breathe, brittle. Some are tipped over, rolling in circles with lids lost. I stand and feel it all. Air, water, sand, fire leave their stains and pass through.