Honoring Bud WilkinsonI am indebted to Bud Wilkinson for opening and guiding me into the holy place where spirit and clay connect. Although many others have added insight and nuance to this calling, Bud was the portal through which my heart first took flight. Bud Wilkinson was the potter of Dayspring and retreat leader there, with his wife, Carol, from 1965-2001. Located in Germantown, Maryland, the retreat center is now a mission of Dayspring Church, an ecumenical Church in the tradition of the Church of the Saviour located on the Dayspring property. We remain closely connected with all of the other scattered Church of the Saviour churches and are one of several vibrant ministries of Dayspring Church. To the right, you can see Bud at his wheel at Dayspring. Above you can read about my "Damascus Road" experience.
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A Fable: My Story in Clay
There was once a young man who was quite angry: angry at his colleagues and friends, his parents, himself and the world in general. Frustrated because he was never completely satisfied with his own words and deeds, always questioning the words and actions of others, always examining the meaning of this experience, of that deed, of the values that others assigned to the world around them. And because of harboring these feels for such a long time, the young man's body and soul actually began to be crippled.
There was once a also a man of some age who had left his home in the city to live in the countryside, close to the thick green rush of hills and woods and gentle winding footpaths. This older man, very much at home in the silence of the countryside, was by vocation a potter.
One day, almost by accident, the young man happened to visit the older man at his workshop. "Go down to the potter's studio," he was told, "you might learn something." When he arrived the potter was busily throwing his pots for the next firing, centering the clay, throwing it, giving it shape, removing it from the wheel. Almost immediately the young man began to talk to the potter, but was soon stopped short by the words of the potter himself, "Feel free to talk to me all that you want and I will listen. But do not expect me to answer you while I'm at work on the wheel."
And so it began. The young man slowly unfolded the many questions he had concerning the meaning of his life, especially the anger he held in subtle shapes against his colleagues and friends, against himself, against the world in general. And the potter listened as he threw his pots, centering the clay, opening and hollowing space, cutting the vessel from the wheel, refusing still to answer the young man's anxious questions.
Finally, it grew late in the day and the young man returned to the city. But it was not long until he returned to the potter's house, again to unfold his story and be heard, again to watch the hypnotic motion of the potter's hands, again to go away without answers. Several times this encounter took place like the opening and shaping of the clay itself.
On returning from the last visit with the older potter, the young man, still with anger, though softened, in his heart and still with many unanswered questions, sought out and found for himself some clay, a potter's wheel and a teacher. Then he too began the struggle to center the wobbling clay and throw a few small pots, though for a long time very poorly. But slowly as his work with clay progressed, so did his quest to understand the feelings within himself. Throwing the clay, shaping this gray-green earth for fire, healed the wholeness that was in him.
There was once a also a man of some age who had left his home in the city to live in the countryside, close to the thick green rush of hills and woods and gentle winding footpaths. This older man, very much at home in the silence of the countryside, was by vocation a potter.
One day, almost by accident, the young man happened to visit the older man at his workshop. "Go down to the potter's studio," he was told, "you might learn something." When he arrived the potter was busily throwing his pots for the next firing, centering the clay, throwing it, giving it shape, removing it from the wheel. Almost immediately the young man began to talk to the potter, but was soon stopped short by the words of the potter himself, "Feel free to talk to me all that you want and I will listen. But do not expect me to answer you while I'm at work on the wheel."
And so it began. The young man slowly unfolded the many questions he had concerning the meaning of his life, especially the anger he held in subtle shapes against his colleagues and friends, against himself, against the world in general. And the potter listened as he threw his pots, centering the clay, opening and hollowing space, cutting the vessel from the wheel, refusing still to answer the young man's anxious questions.
Finally, it grew late in the day and the young man returned to the city. But it was not long until he returned to the potter's house, again to unfold his story and be heard, again to watch the hypnotic motion of the potter's hands, again to go away without answers. Several times this encounter took place like the opening and shaping of the clay itself.
On returning from the last visit with the older potter, the young man, still with anger, though softened, in his heart and still with many unanswered questions, sought out and found for himself some clay, a potter's wheel and a teacher. Then he too began the struggle to center the wobbling clay and throw a few small pots, though for a long time very poorly. But slowly as his work with clay progressed, so did his quest to understand the feelings within himself. Throwing the clay, shaping this gray-green earth for fire, healed the wholeness that was in him.