Pottery as metaphor
When my hands finally got to feel the weight of clay in them, plopping it on the cold, metal, wheel head, pushing the pedal of the wheel to make it spin, and learning how to center this wild part of the earth—was a huge coming back to myself moment. I could feel my hands for the first time in a long time. For many years of my existance, my hands never looked like my own and it was confusing to see them fluttering, writing, moving, holding things at different points. It is weird to be surprised by your own hands!
I don’t know about you, but I was *never* encouraged to wonder or to sit with ideas or stories and allow the prickle of something not resonating to be exactly that—nothing big or small, just a thing to notice. Everything had a weight and a label: that’s sin, that’s grace, that’s a repentable offence; and judgement: the body is bad, sexuality should not be discussed/thought about/mentioned/asked about until the bounds of marriage, feelings aren’t certain.
What I ended up learning was to celebrate my intuition as the Holy Spirit AND something not to be trusted, so I buried my relationship with my body and my spirit because what could I trust aside from what Sunday School teachers, my parents, or the Bible said? It is a confusing place to live, especially as an intuitive and sensitive soul trying to make sense out of a confusing church at odds with the world.
Now when I throw a ball of clay onto the wheel head, I am (almost) immediately centered. I don’t wonder as much as I used to, I don’t feel as conflicted, and I don’t feel as worthless. I love the irony that Creation is what brought me back to myself, and it is my body that has brought me back to my spirit and my own wisdom.
Here are some things I have made (apparently I love tiny things…):
