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The Quiet & the Potter who doesn't Pot.

I’ve been shouty all week.

Not necessarily in a verbal way. More energetically. I feel like I’ve been roaring. 

That everything I’ve said and thought has been fierce. 

I felt fierce all week.  Loud. Bold. Aggravated. Big and ungainly.

Today I feel quiet.  I feel the quiet now, around me.  I can see the leaves and the trees blowing.  But I can’t hear them.  Everyone is out.  The house is quiet.  I’m quiet.  Like the storm, that wasn’t a storm has passed.  I don’t want to speak to anyone.  I don’t want to make any noise.  There’s just the odd, intermittent whirring noise my laptop makes. It makes the quiet louder.

This quiet is me.  It’s in me.  It’s like a still pond. Watching.  Being.  Being the watcher, quietly.

It’s familiar this quiet.

It’s kind of lonely I think.

It’s kind of all it’s own.

It’s the leftovers after the roaring.

After the dreams that don’t really reveal themselves.  Except in the hollowed out feeling of the eyes.

I like the quiet.

But I’m not sure what to do with it.

It feels like I would pot.  If I were a potter.

Or paint.  If I were a painter....

That the quiet would produce paintings of digested roarings.....or still ponds of pottery.

But I don’t pot.

Or paint.

Though I have a growing yearning to.

Pot or Paint.

Like they would be vehicles to express and explore the quiet. And even perhaps should I be clever or skilled enough, the roaring fierceness.  But I don’t pot. 

Or paint.

So how does one express then?

Because the urge is there to.

What happens if you don’t have a potters wheel but you have an urge to pot.

What happens if you don’t paint. But you are roaring and quiet and fierce and still and there’s no way to look at it.  Know it.

What then?

It’s quiet today.

I can see the leaves blowing. Not a lot. It’s quite still outside too. Still and also quiet.

Like a listening.

I’m listening too.

And watching.

And being.


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