Did you ever have the opportunity to throw a pot? I don't mean winging one across the room, I'm talking about using a potter's wheel to shape a lump of clay.

Watching a skilled potter at work has always fascinated me. So when I had the opportunity to experiment with a potter's wheel several years ago, I had a ball. Maybe the little kid inside (who still loves to play in mud) had a fascination about throwing pots in the first place, but something much deeper made me stick with the pottery course long after I'd acquired the necessary art credits I needed when returning to college as a "non-traditional student" (better known as the old lady in the class).

Becoming a master potter requires a lifetime of devotion to the craft. By way of comparison, you could say that I'm still in kindergarten dabbling at the "play-dough level." Don't get me wrong, I've managed to create some nice, functional pots. A few of them even turned out quite beautiful (depending upon the eyes of beholder, of course).

One pot in particular, which I had intended to make into a dog dish, ended up taking its place as my favorite casserole. (You never know what you’re liable to form when you start shaping clay; you get a surprise every time.)

The whole process of creating a pot involves much more than simply twirling wet clay on a potter's wheel. After you form the initial creation, that pot must dry to the "leather" stage, when you can then trim the base and add handles or other decorative touches.

But only after drying completely does the pot undergo its first firing in the kiln. Sometimes during this heating process, if a pot has not dried thoroughly, water trapped inside the clay can cause it to explode. Any impurities or bubbles in the clay might make a pot crack, as well.

The particular pot upon which I base this column had none of those problems. It survived its first firing in fine condition, and, after adding a glaze, it emerged from the second firing transformed. (It's always a kick to open the kiln after a second firing. Everything looks so different than it looked going in.)

I kept my pot on top of the refrigerator to collect "things." You know, one of those catch-all kinds of places for keys and rubber bands and twist-ties and fortune cookie messages. My pot sat up there for weeks, doing its job without a hitch.

Then one day, as I sat in the family room minding my own business, I heard a loud "PING" which sounded as if it had come from the kitchen. I didn't have a clue as to what could have made such a noise.

I searched the kitchen, looking for a fallen picture or broken glass or some sign of catastrophe, when my eyes fell upon that innocent-looking pot.

There it sat with a long, gaping crack down one side.

Keep in mind, that several months had passed since that last firing process. But (according to my professor), an inner tension left in the clay had finally wreaked its havoc and forced that little pot to crack.

Stress did it. Wow!

Curious, but my own life had undergone just such a process.

I had to learn the hard way, what "keeping everything trapped inside" can do to a person. Sooner or later the pressure would take its toll.

I, too, had cracked.

At a time when I felt totally shattered and alone, I went back to college to try and begin piecing my life back together again. Slowly, I began to learn healthier ways to diffuse that inner tension (be it by digging in the garden, swimming half-a-mile, hollering at the top of my lungs from the branches of a tree -- where no one else can hear, mind you -- but especially by writing). And I began the process of sharpening and honing my tools.

So, I keep my cracked pot as a constant reminder. Whenever I'm tempted to revert to the old, familiar habits of biting my tongue and keeping my emotions trapped inside, I look at my pot and remember the price I must pay to do so.

Internalizing tension costs one dearly.

But as E.B. White once put it: "Remember, genius is more often found in a cracked pot, than in a whole one." Although I fall far short of genius status, I have gained a unique perspective from the lessons taught by my little, cracked pot.

So now, as "The Crackpot," I humbly come to share my oddball slant on life through the medium of this column. And I come to share a message with you, as well:

No matter how badly shattered your pot may be -- no matter what your struggles or your circumstances -- you can be whole, once more.

Oh, it does take time and effort to glue the fragments of a life back together again. But remember this: only through the cracks that remain can the light finally begin to shine through!

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