Thick and Dark

At a pottery class yesterday I was immersed in mud, cold water and metaphors.  When pulling the column upward, we had to move slowly, or our fingers would mar the outside surface instead of creating a pleasing pattern.  A base must contain enough mass to support the piece, while remaining thin enough to enable ease of handling.  I wanted to spend a bit of time contemplating the poetry of the process, but I was hindered by an elementary issue.  The teacher talked about centering the clay properly (making a wall of your left hand??); however, I could not get it to balance.  As the wheel whirred around, my focus on the strange phllummping just seemed to exacerbate the problem.  Finally, in panic lest I ruin my fourth piece in a row, I closed my eyes to drown out all the visuals. 
Then, I felt the center. 
My left arm became a fixed point and centrifugal force helped my hands shape a sphere worthy of a bowl or mug or planter-type-vessel-thing.

Grief and pain do the same thing to me.  The more deeply I gaze at them the more I am lost in a worsening wobble. 
I am caught in the pattern of self-blame and self-justification.  Why did I think I should have anything better?  But, shouldn't I?  Given my fallen nature, how could I?
As with the clay, I have to close my eyes.  I need to shut out the distractions of my mourning for the world I envisioned/ the life I think I deserve. 
I must put aside the responsibility for moving the lump of taupe matter into a balanced place.  I have to look at God.

His character, His promises, His presence never change. 
His sovereignty is the constant.  The center.
When my heart is fixed there, the wobbling ceases. 

'Til We Have Faces  presents an analogy of this same conclusion, although the writer skillfully shapes it into an ancient Greek tale of the great sacrifice necessary to strip us of our cheap imitations we cling to so desperately, in order to bring us to bow before Love Incarnate.  It gives me great hope to think I am learning lessons that God drew Job and C.S. Lewis through before me.  And the testimonies they left behind are sturdy pots that bear the finger marks of the Potter who does all things well.

“Holy places are dark places.
It is life and strength, not knowledge and words, that we get in them.
Holy wisdom is not clear and thin like water, but thick and dark like blood.”   C. S. Lewis