Last Thursday I was feeling wobbly. By the time my pup and I padded up the stairs after our mid-day walk, my thoughts were swirly, my mind felt fuzzy and anxious. I needed a refresh, a re-centering. It was a designing day, which meant I was home, curled in my cozy chair, face lit up by the glow of my laptop for hours on end. I thought back to a few weeks earlier, perched in front of a wheel in the studio, centering a mound of clay for the first time in years. It felt as natural as breathing and soon I was shaping the walls of what would become our coffee pour over. As my fingers pulled upward, I knocked the clay off center. No longer positioned in the middle of the wheel, it felt wobbly, swirly - just like my mind last Thursday. I scooped some warm water from a bowl and, using my fingers and the base of my hand, slowly pushed down, re-centering the clay so I could shape it again. Throwing it off center didn’t mean it couldn’t still become the dripper that would brew our coffee each morning. Centering and re-centering that little mound of white clay reminded me that, even if I’m thrown off halfway through, I’m not at a loss. I can always re-center.
POTTERY IS FOR recentering.
POTTERY IS FOR recentering.
POTTERY IS FOR recentering.
Last Thursday I was feeling wobbly. By the time my pup and I padded up the stairs after our mid-day walk, my thoughts were swirly, my mind felt fuzzy and anxious. I needed a refresh, a re-centering. It was a designing day, which meant I was home, curled in my cozy chair, face lit up by the glow of my laptop for hours on end. I thought back to a few weeks earlier, perched in front of a wheel in the studio, centering a mound of clay for the first time in years. It felt as natural as breathing and soon I was shaping the walls of what would become our coffee pour over. As my fingers pulled upward, I knocked the clay off center. No longer positioned in the middle of the wheel, it felt wobbly, swirly - just like my mind last Thursday. I scooped some warm water from a bowl and, using my fingers and the base of my hand, slowly pushed down, re-centering the clay so I could shape it again. Throwing it off center didn’t mean it couldn’t still become the dripper that would brew our coffee each morning. Centering and re-centering that little mound of white clay reminded me that, even if I’m thrown off halfway through, I’m not at a loss. I can always re-center.