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The owner holds my upside-down prize, it's unfinished behind exposed, looks me in the eye
and says,
What’s wrong with this
piece is… that it has a crack.
A crack? I
exclaim, trying to cover up my shock.
Yes, a crack. Right here, at the base. He points the
place with his clay-dusted fingers.
A crack… at the base….I
feel my insides sinking. I am not sure I
can handle a crack… at the base…
Unfinished...? Yes.
Crack… the size of the Grand Canyon …
at the base…? Of all places???
I might be able to handle a tiny cosmetic crack… or even a
little ding on top… but this…
It’s… it’s just too
risky… too… dangerous…?
I look at the owner.
He reads my dismay like an open book. Even though he holds the bowl, we
both know it’s really in my court.
I sense absolutely no pressure from him. No coercion. His eyes, clear as the cloudless
sky outside hide nothing. No cover-up. No thinly veiled greed. No sugarcoating the
truth.
I can’t help but feel deep sense of respect for this man. His simple truth, his patient waiting on me
to decide… to choose…
Will I still want it…
...will I still take it…
...will I still... relish in it…
...even though it has…
...a crack…?
The little demons of perfectionism are in an uproar…
Don’t be a fool. Just leave it… it’s damaged goods… as good as broken… Nobody else
wanted it… that’s why it was on the table in the first place…
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