sunday stories wandering

THIS WEEK'S WORDS come from "You and I" by Stanley Moss: wanderer, create, guilty, particle, painter, potter, mercy, straw, end, follows, clay, all 

Joe found himself wanting to create again.


He went on this trip, because he was bone tired of his life. He needed a change, to be refreshed, to see life with hope again. It was very bold, this move he made, but he felt he'd fade into the background unless he colored himself in.

He had quit his job, which seems irresponsible on the surface, it was steady and paid his bills. It also drained him. He heard his father's words in his head, "son, you don't have to love what you do, you do need to take care of a family though" Thing was, he didn't have a family yet despite wanting one, he didn't own a home yet or even a dog. If not now, when?


Is there ever a good time to wander looking for meaning? He supposed  as scary as this was, now was his time, so he went. In his car, with his savings. To see what he could see.

It had been hard to leave his mother though, only a year after Dad died. There was guilt as he looked into her sad eyes, but he knew if he didn't risk now,  he would never be able to go.


Following the road ahead, with the idea of seeing as much as he could along the way, he watched his mother's waving hand get smaller in the rear view mirror. He wanted to meet people, and feel what it was like to let the moment lead you.

He didn't anticipate missing his potter's wheel so much.

When he read about people doing this kind of trip, he never heard of one who missed their creative sides. If he painted he could take along supplies and paint on the road. But he was a potter, and didn't realize how empty his hands would feel without clay oozing under his nails, and how calming it was to watch the wheel go round with a piece of mud rising with just his hands to guide it.  He was a "potter" but no one he encountered would know that now that he was a "wanderer" . He didn't realize how much identity mattered when meeting people. He didn't realize how much being creative meant to his soul.


Mercifully he knew one day he'd return to a more stable life, one where a studio had dust particles floating around in shafts of sun, one where he could lose himself in making. He couldn't go there yet as he was not settled inside himself.  To be content was a goal, to know one had made a choice to be in one place over another.  To be sure one hadn't  settled there because it was expected was his goal.  He had something to experience, something to learn but not knowing what made it unnerving..


He suspected he'd find it though, and one day return to his wheel, to a home, to himself.

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