Everyone talks about the wonderful days of childhood, and wants to be a child again. But just think about it. One has no control over anything in one’s life…where one lives, what one eats, right down to the small details…everything is decided by Somebody Else, even if that person is the child’s own parent.

I wonder how the clay of the earth feels when it gets “chosen” for being shaped into pottery. Does it enjoy being glazed, and fired, and made to fit the mould?

When one is a parent, one has to be a potter. When one is a grandparent, one potters around and thinks these kind of thoughts…