A pot maker does not mold a lump of clay into the shape he wants. If he is good at what he does, the potter asks the clay what it wants to be and makes it that.

I’ve been working a particular lump of clay for nearly eighteen years now. Don’t look upon it now; I beg you. You’ll scarcely be able to tell what it is. It has interesting parts—some you may even describe as beautiful. But there are twisty portions where twists shouldn’t be, other places the clay has petrified and needs to be rehydrated, perhaps cut off and thrown away altogether.

I’ve been working the clay so long, my hands and back have begun to fail me. Soon, my mind will fail me as well. I’m weaker than I used to be, less confident. But there is value in this. I can hear the clay now. I know what it’s supposed to be. The final product will be smaller than I first thought. Less intricate, less tedious, far less precious, but more precise.

This work, when it is finished, will cut like a crystal blade.