In His Hands

He traveled alone on His long journey searching for solace seeking a comfort which was nameless, faceless written in His heart in a language He could not decypher for He had not the key.

His heart was heavy and the road seemed endless. the path winding, lonely branching off into new paths some of which soon dissolved into tangeled thickets so He had to turn back... retracing His weary steps.

Following the path's curve, He turned the corner one day and stumbled onto the ashes from a fire left behind by a fellow traveler. He stooped and felt them, cold... they had been there for some time. No help to warm Him on that Winter's day. Something glinted in the cold light catching His eye. He reached out and brushed away the ash, satin against His fingertips as He rubbed them together thoughtfully.

A vessel lay there cracked, broken, abandoned unfinished. He sighed... This had once been a thing of beauty, Who could have had so little care as to use and discard it in this manner? He could not bring Himself to simply walk away and allow it to disinegrate. He took from His pack a fine cloth, carefully gathered the shards and pieces from the ashes. Rising and drawing His cloak close about His shoulders, He resumed His travels. Carrying the vessel with Him, cradling it gently.

Not long after, He found a place of rest He found welcoming, and decided to tarry awhile. He visited with other Travelers who had also stopped there, sharing tales of adventure, and misadventure, laughter, song and companionship. Although pleasant, He tired of this after a time. Something was missing yet, something that left a feeling of emptiness, loneliness, a sense of being incomplete.

He drew away into solitude more, feeling alone in the midst of others. He drew out the package He had so carefully carried with Him since that day, often had he unwrapped it here and gazed at it, memorizing it's lines and curves with His eyes, meauring in His mind it's strengths, weaknesses, and it's possibilities. He decide it was time to begin His work. He could only hope that His hands were the ones, that could restore this vessel, make it whole bring back to it it's beauty and grace, and then carry it to it's rightful place.

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Laying the package gently on the table before Him folding back the layers protecting it opening it to His scrutiny. Amazed each time he did this at the new qualities each different angle and change of light exposed to His gaze.

Carefully He began to clean the ash away. In the harsh light of day, the flaws and jagged edges of the shards looked raw, naked, cold, fragile... at times He feared His mere touch would cause it to shatter and fragment more.

In the warm light of approaching sunset, then by flickering candle and firelight the vessel took on a sheen. It glowed beneath His Hands. Miriad colors appearing, brightening with His touch as He worked thru the long night.

Dawn crept into the room before He noticed... He sat back and was still as the realization struck. This was a work less finished than He had first thought. It had never been fired never been tempered and tested by heat and flame. He sighed, wondering if He dared... then knowing He must, He had gone this far and was compelled to continue. He felt a great need rise in Him to complete this task and knew the final result would again be a thing of joy and beauty.

He reached for His pack taking from it a small flask, another treasure He had happened on in His travels. Carefully placing the pieces of the vessel into a wooden bowl, He poured the contents of the flask over them after quenching His thirst from it. Smiling, He contemplated the now empty flask. It was purported that it had contained water from the fountain of the Muses. He chuckled softly at the idea, but secretly hoped the waters of poetry and inspiration might help Him with the task before Him.

He left the vessel to steep as He set about to bathe and refresh Himself, obtaining food and drink restoring Himself before returning to His work. Reaching into His pack again drawing out yet another flask this one smaller containg oils pressed from roses, violets, wildflowers, orchids gathered on His journey, their essence blended and enhanced. Pouring a few drops into the bowl smiling as the soft fragrance warmed and bloomed floating up and out to scent the room, awakening the garden of His mind.

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Returning to His room that evening after seeing to the day's business, He hung His cloak, lit the candles, stirred and fed the fire, then crossed to the table.

Thru the window stars winkled at Him, the bowl answering them with a shimmer, He drew in a sharp breath at the sight. Captured in the bowl was a rainbow. The colors from the vessel having floated free mingling with the oils, swirling lazily on the water a slow dance to the music of the stars.

Shaking free from the image, He set to work. Laying again the fine cloth upon the table, He reached into the bowl, thru the rainbow, and drew forth the now softened clay from the bottom. The rainbow glided playfully over His hands back into the bowl.

Smooth, soft grey, pliant, the clay lay as if waiting for the Artist's touch to transform it. Again He worked thru the night smoothing, kneading, shaping, working slowly and thoughtfully. This was not to be rushed. Recreating the vessel, in the image etched in His heart. An image the shattered vessel had shown Him itself, not one of His making. This was not to be forced into a mold, a preconcieved pattern, He let it grow and take on it's own shape under the gentle ministrations of His hands.

Guiding, coaxing, molding, His touches drawing it forth from itself, compelling it to grow into what it could and must be. He sang as He worked, His voice rising to accompany the stars. His touch varying as was needed, instinctively He knew where to apply a delicate, feathery touch and where more firm pressure was necessary. At last He sat back, cocking His head to one side, contemplating the result of His efforts. He noticed the grey light of early dawn had once more crept in on Him, the stars, giving way regretfully, had begun to trundle off to sleep one by one. Only one bright star remained to greet the new day with Him.

It was not perfection before Him, of course. He had not striven for such. But the vessel now before Him was once again whole. Unfinished still...a work in progress, but already a wonderful transformation. He knew it was at a delicate stage, still very soft and pliable. He knew His touch must be gentle now. With His strong hands He could crush it easily, reducing it to a shapeless piece of clay once more.

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He rose and crossed the room to the fire, stirred and fed it, bringing it to life with the wood of the oak and the apple. As the fire grew, He reflected on the trees' gifts... strength, sustenance, shelter, beauty, and now warmth and light. The fire grew, leaping and dancing, changing colors in rhythm with the growing dawn.

Returning to the table, He picked up the vessel, lowering it back into the bowl, twirling it as he drew it forth once more. The rainbow clung to it, coalescing dressing it in Life's bright colors. The oil's scent following it as He strode back to the fire. There would be no turning back, He knew, once this step was taken. Plunging the vessel swiftly into the center of the blaze where the heat was greatest, the flames licking at His hands, He could only stand back and watch now for a time. And wait.

Would the fire simply consume the vessel? Destroy it? Reduce all His efforts and hopes to ashes and shards once more? He watched the flames dance merrily around the vessel, they seemed to stroke at it as they passed. He watched and waited, it seemed a lifetime. Finally the fire grew sleepy wavering and pulsing in it's bed of embers, the dance slowing, giving way to light of a new day just as the stars had.

He sighed. The vessel stood intact, but had it been strengthened or weakened by the dance with the fire? There could be but one way to know. Rising and going to the table once more, He took up the bowl carried it to the hearth. Taking a deep breath, feeling His heart pause in it's beating, He poured the water and oils over the vessel.

The steam rose, roiling, hissing, hiding the vessel from His sight in it's cloud. He thought His heart would burst from waiting. Slowly the cloud dissipated. The vessel reappearing as if from behind a veil, or emerging from a cocoon. It had remained whole. No cracks, no stains, tiny flaws and imperfections from it's remaking, only adding character. The water and oil had washed and steamed away the soot, leaving the now heat seared colors imbedded, and glowing deeply.

He sighed in relief, and smiled. He had brought no further harm by what He had attempted. It was indeed a good thing. He drew the vessel forth, setting it to cool on the hearth. Turning, He began to gather His belongings, it was time for Him to resume His journey. Lastly He took again the fine cloth, wrapped the vessel tenderly in it, and once again cradled it in His arm. It would travel with Him from now on, Wherever this journey would lead Him. He need not find it's rightful place, it was there already, in the crook of His arm. And He would find new treasures in His travels, such wondrous things to fill His vessel with. And not until the journey's end would He feel He had filled it completely.

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He opened the door on the bright new day, glancing back only once to set this special place in His memory. He strode forward, head held high, shoulders strong and confident. The sun smiling down on Him. There were miles yet to go, beyond that first step. Pleasant surprises around the bend. Adventures just over the next rise. Songs to be sung. Deeds to be done. Life to be lived. And perhaps, perhaps.... Love to be shared.