In a village, in a valley, in between two mountains, there lived a potter named Elara. She sat in her studio for hours on end, and she worked hard to produce the things she did. People the world over knew her, for her beautiful, symmetrical, perfect pottery, never lumpy or messy or too thick or thin. She basked in their praise, using it as motivation. And so she lived, day in and day out, making pots that all looked exactly the same, every line and circle and curve identical.
And Elara loved her work. She loved making pots, she loved to compare them and find each feature identical. She was proud of what she could create with her hands and a bucket of mud. And every other Sunday, when the market came to town, she was the first one in line to sell her pots with her head held high. And so she became very rich.
With the money from her pots, she built herself a big studio, on top of a hill overlooking the village, with nice big windows and a beautiful garden in the backyard. And she built herself a house that was right next door, and it was huge, but she lived in it all alone. For despite her fame and riches, Elara was lonely. She had never had time to get married or have children, and her own parents had passed away when she was very young. So she threw herself into her work every day, and made pot after beautiful pot.
When she ventured out to buy wood for her kiln, or clay, or oil for her wheel, people deferred to her naturally. They smiled at her when she walked past, and whispered to each other, There’s that potter. She makes beautiful things. I have some of them at home. And she smiled indulgently at them so she could see them fall over each other. Everyone knew her. Everyone knew she made perfect things. She always had, and always would, until the day she fell over dead. And Elara knew that too.
The weather in the village was unpredictable, probably because it was in such an odd area. Weather forecasts were more like wild guesses, but the people had learned to adapt. One day, a vicious storm swept through the valley, destroying everything in its path. Hundred-year-old oak trees were uprooted like dandelions, and grazing cattle were picked up and deposited fifty miles away.
The people of the village knew the storm was coming, they had heard stories from traders who came by. They stockpiled food and hid in their basements, figuring it would come and go soon enough.
The storm was vengeful, whipping windows with rain and sending wind whistling through the buildings. Elara sat in her house and stared numbly out the window at her studio, whose foundations were shuddering in the wind. The storm raged for days and nights, until the skies were finally clear and the village had been washed.
The villagers ventured out slowly into the streets. They smelled of rain and mortar, and they were awash with debris from the leveled buildings. They sifted through the rubble, looking for things they could salvage. The village was heavy with despair, but none were so horrified as Elara was when she left her house.
Her studio had been brought completely to the ground, a mess of broken pottery and shattered glass. Elara gave a pained cry and rushed to the pile of rubble. The villagers looked up at her hill, and someone cried, Look! Look at Elara’s studio.
They trooped up the hill to help her, disregarding their own homes. They found her kneeling among the rubble, holding pieces of her perfect identical pottery. It was all gone.
An old man knelt to help, his bones creaking as he let out a heavy sigh. He picked up a pot that had somehow survived. The inside was thick with dust, and as he lifted it, Elara said, Don’t touch that!
He looked up, startled, and then back down at the pot in his hands. It was clearly made by Elara’s hands. The fine clay and the careful craftsmanship was unmistakable, but what was it that was different? What was off about this piece of Elara?
Oh, said the old man, startled, this side is lower than the other.
His daughter leaned forward, surprised. I’m sure it isn’t.
Elara was distraught, leaning forward to take the pot from the old man at once. But by then, a young girl had found another old pot, with asymmetrical etchings and a disproportionately wide base. Elara watched as the village slowly began to discover her old, imperfect, lumpy projects, from when she had just started out as a potter, and she saw her career crumble before her eyes. Her carefully curated reputation, the way people jumped to buy her work, she was sure she was watching it all slip away.
The old man who had found the first pot stood amid the rubble, next to Elara. Why are you so embarrassed? he asked her.
Because, she said, and found she couldn’t explain it. Now they will not buy my pots. They know I used to be bad. Who will buy from a potter who makes such awful lumpy creations? And her eyes burned with tears, and she was sure her livelihood was gone.
The old man looked at her kindly. Why will they not buy from you? Your pots are beautiful. The old ones and the new ones.
Elara frowned. No, they aren’t. They are lumpy and misshapen. They are ugly.
The old man shook his head, looking around at the villagers searching among the rubble. See how they search? They do not search to ridicule you, Elara. They like these pots. Do you know why?
Elara did not.
Because they are different. They are different from the ones you always make. They are beautiful because they are different. A pot need not be perfect to be loved.
Elara thought about the old man’s words for a long time. She watched the villagers sift through the remnants of her beautiful studio, looking for ugly pots. And then, very slowly, she picked up the first pot the old man had found, and she turned it in her hands. She watched how the clay caught the light, and how the asymmetrical opening curved so gracefully. And she found it beautiful.
Elara rebuilt her studio, and she kept all her pots out on display – new and old. And she began to make pots again, but these were different. They curved gracefully into different directions, and they had carvings that weren’t quite the same all over, and yes, perhaps one of the sides was just a bit thicker than the other. But the pots were beautiful all the same. Perhaps even more than before. And however much Elara had loved making the same pot over and over again, she loved making new ones more.