Connecting Through Clay
How I fill my cup by making one
Every couple of weeks, after the evening chores have been done and I have had dinner, I steal off into the night to meet with a friend (or two) at her little pottery studio, and we play with clay.
I’ve learnt a lot about myself playing with clay. Clay is one of those mediums that can lend itself to the pragmatist and the perfectionist, or the dreamer and visionary. Most often, I find, we are bits of both.
With clay, unlike my first love of painting, I have this intense perfectionist streak that, frankly, I am a bit in love with. I learnt long ago that my idea of perfectionism is most definitely when something is flawed in its conventionality. I like a pristine bowl with a little dent or a thumbprint that betrays the softness that once was. Like the people I love, the scars and marring bring a depth of beauty that a blank surface never can.
I also enjoy an art form that has an obvious purpose. It saves me from the rumination that painting brings, that there is a purpose for this beyond pure pleasure and the need to do it. I make a vase, or a cup, or a bowl, and I’ve contributed somehow to the benefit of whoever uses it. There is nothing nebulous about it, unlike painting. Clay, like the earth beneath our feet, is solid and definable. There’s an instinctive primal elegance, almost as if the thousands of years of people producing pottery have somehow seeped into our human DNA.
This week, however, I just kneaded clay for a couple of hours and produced next to not much. I couldn’t think of something to make, much less execute. My being is holding stresses that overwhelm — carrying the coalescing needs that young children and aging parents bring, holding together vulnerable family members to maintain their safety and well-being. To think beyond this is difficult.
But simply kneading clay is what I needed that night. What is it, when women gather and knit, or knead, or braid, or mend, or weave, that is the lubricant for conversation? Was this the original counselling or therapy? What is it that feels so right, even to a hermit crab like myself, about working with our hands in a group that can alleviate our stress and worries, if not solve them?
And I wonder, what happens to a society when we stop gathering like this, to make and create, build and mend? What happens to the cup of our hearts?
Just being with a couple of friends in that little pottery studio, warm light glowing out into the darkness of the farm, was all I needed.
My cup runneth over.
Thank you for reading. I appreciate the connection with this community and would love to hear your thoughts! A clap or comment would greatly encourage me as I start my journey on Medium.
Melanie
