I Am a Vase

Shiny porcelain, rough wood, heavy clay, cut glass, dollar store plastic, we will shatter, crack, or chip when we hit the floor.

Shiny porcelain, rough wood, heavy clay, cut glass, dollar store plastic, we will shatter, crack, or chip when we hit the floor. We will be forever changed. In looking over the edge, we already are. Seeing the fear and confusion in one another, we are already changed. I am, it seems, at the edge.

I am a vase, shaped by clumsy hands and then reshaped over time. Like the Whyte poem says. But he is not a vase, of course; he is a poet. I am a vase, nudged by current circumstances to the edge of this table from the middle, where once I felt safe, where I thought I would always be. I assumed. A vase, like other vases. Even if different in color, texture, and form, we serve the same general purpose. Generously or begrudgingly, holding water. We are, all of us, wellsprings letting flowers bloom. Aren’t we? Vases holding daisies, jasmine, chrysanthemums, whatever the contour of life.

Ridiculous notion. I understand that now.

There are other purposes. At the edge, this is clear. Crush the petals, starve the root systems, smash the xylem, withhold sustenance—all sorts of purposes strewn across the vast below. We are not all wellsprings, it turns out. Sometimes, there are no best intentions. I see that now. I am a vase. Am I? Just because I am frightened doesn’t mean I’m good or kind.

It is no longer enough to simply contain water, perhaps. I must reshape myself this time. Become nimbler and stronger, ready to catch people, shout down the bullies, stand up to arrogance and ignorance. Try not to be so arrogant and ignorant. If I teeter and fall from here, maybe I won’t shatter so much as set something free. Courage, maybe. When you’re falling, dive. Mark Matousek said that. He is not a vase, of course; he is a writer.

Containment is no longer possible. It’s no longer a reasonable goal. Something wants to happen. The sentence hangs on the door of a friend. A plaque? A piece of paper? I don’t know. I haven’t opened that door. It is hearsay. But I believe it sets a tone, an orientation.

Here at the edge, it is clear that something wants to happen. Even amid so much rapid-fire happening, almost too much to bear, something larger wants to happen. We inanimates are being dragged from the center, out of the comfort of the mediocre. Catapulted from the status quo.

The opposite of containment is freedom. I am a vase. There are fissures in the glass. It will be a relief to shatter. Time to get the hell out of the center and beyond this surface.