Turn and Burn Pottery





Rollo Walter Brown

     In trying to crowd all life into the night, we have lost morning.  Persons who profess wide experience of the world have never seen a sunrise.  Oh, they have half-seen one, perhaps, but only as the tag-end of the night, something they decided to wait up for and sing about in falsetto.  But morning, not as an end but as a beginning, is a miracle to be seen only with refreshed eyes.    

     When I was nine I sometimes arose at break of day to carry breakfast to my farther down at the little log pot shop after he had been burning kiln all night.  I went along a ridge heavy with the green sweet of blossoming locust trees, with sun just venturing, and often with a great blue heron, his legs far out behind, flying in easy rhythm above a quiet world.

     The deep narrow hallow where the potshop stood was still in unawakened shadow, but the bright day that was beginning to touch the tops of the flues and cat-holes of the kiln's dome into a mere circle of palest light, in which my farther moved energetically.

     It was when I was homeward, though, that I was in full morning.  Brown thrashers and cardinals celebrated from every tree-tip in the pasture, bobwhites called cheerfully from low fences, a neighbor's peacocks pierced the fresh air with their sophisticate cry, and for miles houses were white in the sun on ridges of lush green.  The world was bright and wide and promising.

     For in the morning one can be filled with a mighty belief.  Life is coming, everywhere.  As the earth turns, the moving arc of brightness stretching from pole to pole and relentlessly displacing night brings unfailing invitation to those with freshly opened eyes.  They are begged to see, to be assured that faith may be well founded, to stand ready to do the impossible.  And in fresh early-morning belief the impossible can be done.

     Let us have morning.



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