On Sculpting
My grandmother was a fine sculptress. Many of her pieces sit on my shelves and countertops. It's an impressive thing to watch, a hunk of clay becoming something recognizable. Mesmerizing, actually. The hands doing their patient work as the form turns slowly beneath them.
Each of us is such a slab of clay.
And there are two sets of hands. The restless hands of the world, or the gentle touch of awareness. In every moment one of them is doing the shaping.
How to know which?
Look at the piece. Not the body ... the body doesn't carry the signature. Look at the state of mind.
If what we find is ease, joy, an unconditional love for everyone, those are the marks of divine fingers. Nothing else leaves them.
But if we find stress, strain, or sorrow, the world's hands are shaping the clay.
As we read in A Course in Miracles, "The secret of salvation is but this: that you are doing this unto yourself." We choose the sculptor.
The moment we notice we're spinning under worldly hands, the clay goes soft again. And the sacred hands of Presence can now shape us into a channel for love.