Throwing Pots

Ever since I was little I have found mud incredibly soothing. Just ask my despairing mother of two decades ago as she dutifully packed a spare change of clothes for my inevitable mud bath.

There's something wonderfully grounding about making something from dirt. My parents enrolled me in a pottery class when I was thirteen and all that remains of my efforts is a ceramic cat, all facial features long ago washed away.

I started again in the spring of this year when the monotony of my work was starting to get to me. It was just like I remembered it. Running hands through thick cool earth and forming into dilapidated bowls of unknown usage.

I'm never going to be very good at it. I've long ago accepted that my hands were just not made to create pretty, delicate things. They are large hands with bent fingers. They are meant to garden, cup my breasts obscenely in public and baffle ring makers. I hope one day they will be hands that hold a new born's head. I think I'd like to do that.

But I'd like to make a bowl that I can eat cereal out of first. Priorities, people.


Catch you on the flipside,
CGL

P.S. Yes, still waiting