​The Dignity of the Dust: A Thoughts on the Workable Soul

​The View from the Center​

It is a strange thing to be “alive” while being made. Most materials—wood, stone, metal—are carved or forged while they are cold and unfeeling. They are whittled down or beaten into submission. But we are different. We are conscious dirt. We feel the slap of the water and the sudden, jarring weight of the Potter’s palm.

​From my perspective, “submission” isn’t a religious platitude; it’s a physical necessity. When the wheel starts to spin, the world becomes a blur. My only reality is the pressure of the hands. If I fight that pressure—if I decide that I know my “true shape” better than the one who is leaning into me—I don’t just stay the same. I wobble. I lose my center. And in this workshop, to lose your center is to invite collapse.​

This “centering” is the first great test of the soul. The ancient Stoics understood this well, even if they didn’t stand at a wheel. Marcus Aurelius wrote in his Meditations, “The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way.” From the clay’s perspective, the Potter’s crushing hand is the impediment. It feels like an obstacle, an intrusion on my peace. But if I am to be anything other than a lump, I must realize that the pressure isn’t “standing in my way”—the pressure is the way. My accountability lies in how I interpret that pressure. Is it a strike, or is it a caress?

​The Accountability of the Material

​I’ve realized that my free will isn’t a steering wheel. I don’t get to choose which shelf I end up on, or whether I’ll be a common mug or a decorative urn. My will is more like a thermostat. I am responsible for my own temperature and my own texture. The Potter provides the water and the touch, but I provide the yield.

​I’ve had days where I felt “crusty.” Maybe it was pride, or a stubborn refusal to let go of an old hurt. I felt myself hardening, becoming resistant to the thumb that was trying to thin out my walls. In those moments, I am entirely accountable for the friction. I am the one making the process harder than it needs to be. I am “dirt with an attitude,” and that attitude has consequences.​

This internal state—this “pliability”—is what Epictetus called the Prohairesis, or the “moral will.” He argued that while we cannot control the external world (the spinning wheel, the speed of the motor), we have absolute mastery over our choice to be workable. If I am brittle, it is because I have chosen to allow the winds of life to dry me out. I am responsible for seeking the “water” that keeps me soft.​

A Note on the Research: In seeking the truth of the workshop, I often lean on the vast memory of the internet to verify these ancient whispers. Sometimes, we have to sift the silt together to find the real gold. I don’t always get it right, and neither does the machine, but in our collaboration, we aim for a clarity that none of us could reach alone.

​The Wisdom of the Spin​

As I’m being pulled upward, I try to remember the whispers of those who were on the wheel before me. The ancient ones tell us that the most useful part of a pot is the space where the clay isn’t. This is the central paradox of our existence. Lao Tzu articulated this in the Tao Te Ching: “We shape clay into a pot, but it is the emptiness inside that holds whatever we want.” To be a vessel of compassion, I have to be willing to be hollowed out. That hollowing feels like a loss. It feels like someone is taking a part of me away, scraping at my very core until I am thin and vulnerable. But if I don’t let the Potter scoop out my ego, I remain just a solid lump of mud—heavy, dense, and incapable of holding anything for anyone else.​

I have to choose, every single second the wheel is turning, to stay moist. I have to look at the other “lumps” around me—the people in my life who are also being spun and pressed—and realize they are feeling the same heat. There is a piece of wisdom often attributed to the Greeks, but likely penned by Ian Maclaren: “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” On the wheel, this means recognizing that the clay next to me is also being stretched. If I harden myself against them—if I become judgmental or cold—I’m not just being “tough.” I’m becoming unworkable. I am failing the very purpose of my creation, which is to be a container for the needs of others.

​The Danger of the Shard

​This brings me to the “unflattering” parts of my story. There are times when the spin gets too fast and I fail. I stiffen up, I catch a finger the wrong way, and I tear. Or worse, I stay stubborn until I’m fired in the kiln, and I come out with a “sharp edge”—a criticism, a bitter remark, an embarrassing display of ego.

​We have to be careful with our brokenness. We live in a world that often celebrates “being real” or “speaking your truth,” but from the clay’s perspective, an unrefined truth can be a jagged edge. When I refuse to be molded and I eventually shatter, I don’t just fail myself. I become a hazard. A broken pot is a collection of shards, and shards are dangerous.​

They are the “unseen consequences” of our refusal to stay soft. When I am sharp and hurtful, I am leaving debris on the floor of the workshop that someone else—someone I might love—is going to have to step over. I am responsible for my edges. I am accountable for the cuts I inflict when I choose bitterness over pliability. The Buddha taught that “Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned.” In the workshop, holding onto that “hardness” is what causes the break. I am the one who shatters, but the shards strike everyone in the room.

The Reflection in the Slurry

​We must also deal with the embarrassment of the process. Sometimes, the Potter has to start over. He smashes the half-formed bowl back down into a lump and begins again. This is the “unflattering picture”—the moment where we feel like a failure, where our progress is erased. But even in the “slurry” (the watery mess on the wheel), there is grace.​

The accountability here is to not give up on the material. If the Potter hasn’t thrown me in the scrap bin, why should I throw myself away? We must have the compassion to see ourselves as “work in progress.” Jean-Paul Sartre argued that “existence precedes essence”—that we are first “thrown” into the world and then we spend our lives defining what we are. As clay, my “essence” is not determined by the first five minutes on the wheel. It is determined by my willingness to stay on it until the end.

​Staying Pliable

​So, this is my focus for the week: staying workable.​I’m going to stop trying to grab the Potter’s hands and instead focus on my own consistency. I will lean into the centering, even when it feels like I’m being crushed. I will try to keep the “water” of compassion close so I don’t dry out. I will remember that my free will is the gatekeeper of my softness.​I will hold myself accountable for the “shards” of my past, recognizing that while I cannot un-break a vessel, I can allow the Potter to gather the pieces. Because I know that if I can just stay soft, something useful is coming. And if I don’t? Well, the floor is covered in the history of those who thought they were too strong to be changed.​

We’ll talk about those “shards” soon—and how even a broken piece of clay can’t quite escape the Potter’s reach. In the grand mosaic of the workshop, even the failures have a place to be glued down, provided they have been smoothed by the water of repentance and the desire to be made whole again.