Losing bits or ourselves or creating each other? Which will the whittler do? |
The Whittler In a union of two, I always thought the one who is most high strung with the loudest or surest preferences was the one who usually wins the little standoffs in marriage: "I'm tired, are you coming to bed." "I'm not in the mood for Mexican, you okay with Chinese?" "Let's go, I don't see anything you need to buy." I often feel I'm a block of wood being whittled by the one I love. My tendency, to allow those more inconvenienced to have their way, is permission given to control. As I look forward to another decade of narrow-minded bureaucrats, and losing myself in exchange for insurance and retirement, I look down past the whittler's lap and see shavings of wood, my dreams of teaching college, returning to school, leaving the bureaucracy that is sucking away my moral compass, my intellect, my inner vision of who I want to be. My dreams, they pile up, buried and unsought, while my dear one whittles a beautiful shape of how he sees me to be, in his own mind. I grasp at the swirls and chunks of shavings left discarded in the grass, and I fill my pockets with all they can hold for fear of losing bits of me. Like a child hoarding tiny found objects; rubber bands, paper clips, pennies, scraps of cloth, I dream of all I can make with the remnants, after the whittler's masterpiece is complete. While gathering those trinkets of my life, the shavings, my fingers dig deeper and fill my nails with soft, cool clay hidden under grass below the whittler's gaze. With pockets full of pulp and dreams and two fistfuls of red clay, I find myself a quiet place to form my self, and what I plan to be. When I was done, I brought my form, the symbol of my being, and made some space above the fireplace beside where my whittler's creation rests. Proudly, like a child, presenting a flower to his mother I set my own masterpiece on prime real estate, boldly owning my life's new path. Together, the whittler and I stared at the mantle of our marriage, at our creations, and he smiled, as he looked over at me. "It's about time you got some confidence, showed me what you can be." So I asked, "What is the whittled form on the mantle? Is that how you wish me to be?” And he said with a chuckle as he shook his head and grinned, "Oh, that? I was trying to whittle a quill to present to you when you publish your first book of poetry, but I whittled it a bit much trying to fix my mistakes. What do you see? A pen or an unleaded pencil, maybe?" "And what of that clay you formed?" My lover went on, "What does that represent?" And I told him. "Untapped potential, my whittler man, to be shaped by me as I go along." We reached for each other's hand and strolled to the whittling chair. But first, in separate directions we drifted, just a moment, while gathering our supplies and our selves. When we returned, I presented a lump of cool, rust colored clay and he handed me a knotty stick and a knife and I began to whittle away. Only this time, without resentment, no feelings of loss or regret, I accepted the chance to be God for one tiny moment and be creator of my lover's destiny. Maybe this is how God works. We come to earth as a lump of clay, or stick of wood. We live life thinking the Supreme whittler, and our loved ones, are forming us to their image of what we ought to be. What if we take that clay or wood that is us, and take a seat at the whittler's chair, or the potter's wheel, and claim the life God gave us here? If we learn to take ownership of the "me", perhaps we could finally become the whittlers of our own destiny. SWPoet 86 Lines __________________________________________________ Original before corrections (For my reference only) The Whittler In a union of two, I always thought the one who is most high strung with the loudest or surest preferences was the one who usually wins The little standoffs in marriage, "I'm tired, are you coming to bed", "I'm not in the mood for Mexican, you okay with Chinese" "Let's go, I don't see anything you need to buy" And I feel I'm a block of wood being whittled by the one I love. My tendency to allow those more inconvenienced to have their way is permission given to control. As I look forward to 20 more years of narrow-minded bureaucrats, and losing myself in exchange for insurance and retirement, I look down past the whittler's lap and see shavings of wood, my dreams of teaching college, returning to school, leaving the bureaucracy that is sucking away my moral compass, my intellect, my inner vision of who I want to be. My dreams, they pile up, buried and unsought, while my dear one whittles a beautiful shape of how he sees me to be, in his own mind. I grasp at the swirls and chunks of shavings left discarded in the grass, and I fill my pockets with all they can hold for fear of losing bits of me. Like a child with with tiny found objects in hand; rubber bands, paper clips, pennies, scraps of cloth, I dream of all I can make with the remnants, after the whittler's masterpiece is done. While gathering those bits of wood, my fingers dig deeper and cover my nails with soft, cool clay hidden under grass below the whittler's gaze. With pockets full of pulp and dreams and two fistfuls of red clay, I find myself a quiet place to form my self, and what I plan to be. When I was done, I brought my form, my symbol of a my being, and found an equal place on the same mantle beside where my whittler's creation rests. Proudly, like a child, presenting a flower to his mother I set my own masterpiece on prime real estate, boldly owning my life's new path. Together, the whittler and I stared at the mantle of our marriage, at our creations, and he smiled, as he looked over at me. "It's about time you got some confidence, showed me what you can be." So I asked, "What is the whittled form on the mantle, Is that how you wish me to be? And he said with a chuckle As he shook his head and smiled, "Oh, that? I was trying to whittle a quill to present to you when you publish your first book of poetry, but I whittled it a bit much, don't you think. What do you see? A pen or an unleaded pencil, maybe?" "And what of that clay you formed", my lover asked "What does that represent?" "Untapped potential, my whittler man, to be shaped by me as I go along." We reached for each other's hand and we strolled to the whittling chair. In separate directions we drifted, just a moment, while gathering our supplies and our selves. When we returned, I presented a lump of cool, rust colored clay and he handed me a knotty stick and a knife and I began to whittle away. Only this time, without resentment, no feelings of loss or regret, I accepted the chance to be God for one tiny moment and be creator of my lover's destiny. Maybe this is how God works. We come to earth as a lump of clay, or stick of wood. We live life thinking God, the supreme whittler, and others are forming us, to their image of what we ought to be. What if we take that clay or wood that is us, and take a seat at the whittler's chair, or the potter's wheel, and claim the life God gave us here? If we learn to take ownership of the "me", perhaps, we could finally become the whittlers of our own destiny. SWPoet Check out related poem
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