Threshold

"Give me a child at seven, and I will show you the man." The full text, originally serialized in five parts.

It was a year of deep and permanent impressions. I was seven, and my mother, my brother and I lived in Bergamo, Italy.

At the age of seven, as you may remember, your personality is ready to be lifted from the potter’s wheel and held up in the air like a newborn. You are nearing completion, yet you remain under the potter’s influence: the delicate spout still to be born from the edge of a fingertip, the soft gouge of thumbs has yet to create the dimpled handhold. The possibility remains of an accidental twist as you are removed from the wheel or inadvertent torque as your soft form is set upon its shelf. The success of the entire effort will be rendered in these final moments, the specific identity of the clay, the way it feels in the hand, the way it pours in its own individual and inimitable way. The forever soul of the thing.

There is an old saying that has appeared and reappeared over the years in slight variations, resisting one particular owner, and showing up for different reasons…