Rocks are weathered and the solvents are transported by way of erosion, wind, water and other such forceful natural occurrences. They migrate until eventually forming clay. Meanwhile the mind saunters owing to similar occurrences and navigates to the harbor. Having advanced, the clay and the mind are now a subject of inquisition.
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty”- that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
-Ode on a Grecian Urn, John Keats.
These lines pertain to a “foster-child of silence and slow time”, the urn that Keats had once romantically defined. Although seemingly esoteric, the beauty, the truth, the silent tale, and the dormant ageing beneath a creation of clay are comprehensible by each at some realm.
The plasticity of clay while moist, the firmness when dry and the permanency after enduring a firing in a kiln, this simple beauty of malleability of clay is what puts forth moldable minds.
A mind thus perceives the grace by which clay takes form within inquisitive hands and edges further in search of a recondite contentment, decomposes into fragments of rocks and reaches out for greater understanding, shapes itself endlessly and thus ascends to an ethereal environment. Having taken off on an eternal voyage, the mind thus surfaces as that of a creator.