back in the saddle again

I walked into the classroom feeing excited and apprehensive. I had no idea what to expect. Would my classmates be a bunch of vapid Stepford wives trying to find their artsy side or would they be suburban hippies smelling of patchouli oil? I picked a potter's wheel and began sorting out my tools. My teacher, who looked like she was about twenty, handed me a bag of clay. I looked around the circle and saw that there were only five of us and besides the teacher, I was the youngest one. It looked like a bunch of grandmothers banded together to sign up for the beginner's pottery wheel class.

"Has any of you ever done this before?" the teacher asked. "I took one class in college about eleven years ago," I said. One other person had some experience as well. Ever since college I had wanted to learn more and get better at the potter's wheel. In fact, my dream career would be to have my own studio and create things from clay all day, every day. I would become an old woman famous for her perfect pots and plates and renowned for her glazes. People would come from around the world to watch me work and pay thousands for just one of my pieces...but first, I had to learn how to correctly throw a cylinder, something that always eluded me back in college. My teacher had been so adamant about us learning that basic step she said we were not even allowed to make anything else until we did it. I managed to create a couple of cylinder-like objects but the sides were uneven in thickness and I knew they were sub-par. I wanted to get onto the good stuff- the pots, bowls and other more interesting shapes. But here I was, eleven years later, ready to get to the bottom of my problem.

The teacher grabbed a chunk of clay and plopped it on her wheel. She demonstrated how you make sure it's good and stuck, then you cone it up and push it down to center it, then stick your thumbs in to open it up. She made it look so easy as she pulled the spinning form open and then proceded to bring the sides up into a perfect cylinder. It was mesmerizing. Then, it was our turn to try.

I plopped my ball of clay onto the wheel and took a deep breath. I dipped my hand into my water bowl to grab my sponge and squeezed some water onto it. Pressing on the pedal with my foot, I cupped my hands around the spinning clay. How I had missed the feel of wet clay in my hands! It seemed pretty stuck so I tried to cone it up and down to make sure it was centered. So far, so good. I stuck my thumbs into the center and watched it open up. After compressing the bottom with my finger I made my first attempt at pulling up the sides. It worked! I did a second pull and, lo and behold, I had a cylinder sitting in front of me. I was feeling very pleased with myself until I looked up and noticed my fellow students staring at me with disdain. "Well, she went to college," one of them said in a half-joking yet somehow menacing way. I explained that I was completely shocked and it was a fluke. After cutting my piece off the wheel and removing it from the glare of the grandmothers, I grabbed some more clay and tried again. Viola! It worked like magic. I had no idea what had happened since the last time I tried to make a cylinder that changed me into a cylinder-making-fool but something in my 34 year-old mind had finally clicked and I got it! Somewhere during the last few years of pregnancy, births, nursing and changing thousands of diapers, I actually gained some clarity.

After making four pieces, one of which I allowed to spin out-of-control off the wheel just so my classmates would still speak to me, I cleaned up my area and left the room. On my way out, the teacher said, "Good job, tonight!" "Thanks," I said, trying to not glow from my success.

Maybe it's the beginning of something. Maybe not. But I'm glad I finally tried again. I wonder what else I might be able to do if I put my 34 year-old mind to it?