Clay to Clay

  1.
“You must leave now.”
“For what reason?”
“Because a true sculptor does not seek to ask— you do not prove, you do.”
“How can one ‘do’ when he cannot discern right from wrong?”
“One day, you will understand that before the imagery of death, nothing else matters except the gift you stole from Him when you ascended into the world of the mundane— Dust to dust, and earth to earth.”
“Clay to clay.”

2.
How should I know, then? Magister?
It was a cool Monday morning. The Rest had passed, and the cycle returned to its beginning once again. The young man lay on the round wooden platform, covered with late evening dust. Misty air sparkled with the flowing miracles of life and death. Ivy vines, sage roots, and parsley leaves surrounded him. Songs that are sung passed through the platform of cycles, revolving around the bright-eyed young apprentice. He stared into the glittering dust, as if trying to capture the moments where gaps opened in the barrier between life and death. To the gentle one, that was the most precious moment.
A businessman ran through the buildings, from tall sunlit walls to low, darkened alleys. He had received ill news from the hospital—his lover had departed shortly before. An old woman slept beside the winding streets. The autumn breeze blew over her pale, wrinkled face; the eyelids that had seen too much of the world were half-closed, resting from its hustle and bustle. A young girl sat in an armchair, surrounded by her family and friends. Despite their warmth, she endured her pain alone.
Facing death, all men are one.
Twisting and turning, the shadows grasped each element of fulfillment and then returned to silence. Little by little, the clatter faded, and his own voice had grown more vivid and lively than it should have been since he left the house of his magister. He wondered how long it had been since he entered the world of the mundane.

3.
He had made himself a sculptor, and in a forest, he lay. From where he had started, from where he would end his journey. He recalled a myth he had once heard from a wise man, with whom he had traveled briefly. Never had he seen the man since, but the story stayed in his memory. It was a silent night where campfires warmed the two lonely travelers. With his guitar, the man sang to himself and his companion:

Before the days when men were born
Before the years when gods were formed
Creation called, from life to death
Seven days did He make the world.

With works unseen and wisdom known
Waves of change met the stars.
Dust to dust, and earth to earth,
Cycles turn, and the platform runs.

Music flows with songs unsung;
The wind blows as words begin.
Sculpted by form and left with soul,
Set free to know the wider unknown.

Love and hate, lies and truths,
Satisfactions, and the most despair.
Meeting death, he thanks his work,
Unjudged and gentle, he removes their soul.

Dust to dust, and earth to earth,
The wind returns, and clay to clay.
Music flows with songs unsung;
The wind blows as words begin.

4.
It is said that before death, a person of omnipotence and omniscience appears.
The glory of this figure charms and humbles the mortal who is about to return to the wind.
Every man has his own breath. Every man has his own story. But the moment before the last breath
reminds him of the days that mattered most, of the moments that truly counted.
The bright-eyed apprentice looked into the dust.
He saw the Gentle One before his eyes, in glory and kindness,
as he had remembered, before life and during life.
The day of his banishment appeared before his eyes. And when it was time for him to answer--
“Right is wrong, and wrong is right; humans outrun humans, and life outruns life.
It is a matter of change, and nothing is certain, whether right or wrong.”
“How should you know the answer, then?” the Gentle One asked.
Lying on the platform, the bright-eyed apprentice reached out his arm toward his magister.
Along the way, he had met a girl—a girl he had loved dearly. He made a family and a home.
He had seen the oceans and the mountains, sung with friends, and wept alone.
He had traveled to foreign lands. He touched the precious smiles.
He had met the cycle of seasons and learned the secrets of the stars.
Though anger arose and despair blinded him from time to time,
it was a life fine enough to have pleased him.
Facing death, all men are one.
With a tear of joy, he smiled at the kind old man, touched his hand, and embraced his form.
​
5.
“Thank you,” he heard the Gentle One say.
Returning to the house of his magister, he looked at the form of the Gentle One breathing His breath out into the breeze. With care, he placed his hands on the new clay and began to work. One by one, he reformed the bodies into the lives he remembered them to be, adding some color and leaving out some details. Without calculating the cycle of the stars, from morning to evening, he worked, and the circulating stars began their hymn. On the seventh day, he looked into his own clay. It looked back at him.
​
With a smile, he let go.
​
Dust to dust, and earth to earth,
The wind returns, and clay to clay.
Music flows with songs unsung
The wind blows as words begin.