i hate the guilt of the unfinished. i compulsively read new books, any books i can get my hands on, any books i walk by and pick off the shelf
but this leaves things unfinished. i cringe when i think of how many books i have in limbo. i cringe more when listening to a podcast by a Very Smart Man who has at least 50 books in limbo at once,
must we all be masters of none? must we jump around social media and project to project and become jittery apprentices to hundreds of things, minds separated by short tunnels and very brief pit stops?
my uncle says that every woman should know how to make a biscuit. i challenge him, asking him if this is a man’s task as well, because sometimes i just want a biscuit (bagel) brought to me in bed. i balk at the sexist language while agreeing with the sentiment. yes, i am proud of the way i cut the butter into the flour/salt/baking soda/baking powder and know exactly the right texture. yes, my heart soars at the flakiness and i’m proud to know that my great grandmother would be proud.
i am surrounded by lovely things, things made with the skilled hands of my friends, my teachers. they learn to draw, they learn to stitch, they combine oils and essential oils and make salves that soothe my own hands, worn tired and dry from clay during the winter months. when i sit down to make, i am hastened into the solar system of the makers. i pound a cube into a globe, i smooth out pits, i slam it down into the center of the wheel, take my place at the stool, dip my hands into warm water, lean into the process. it is not something i am prepared for, each time. my shoulders ache, my eyes see a little wobble, i pull the clay up and push it down, up and down, over and over until i think, a bit, it’s centered.
centered is such a complex word to me now. i have watched the clay through processes, i have felt it in my hands. there is such a mystery in the miracle of fully centering a large ball of clay. i tell you, it feels like you bit into the center of the universe, unmasked the mysteries of love. for your hands to move not one bit when holding the clay, it’s simply a miracle.
and then you get to making. you steady your hands and pull a hole. you pull and pull and watch and watch, and then you pull the weight of the clay into something that resembles an every day item.
i am a maker, i think, each time. i walk back to the brick of clay and cut myself a new piece. i marvel at the coldness of the clay, i set about to making another globe, i slam it down with a satisfactory womp, i press myself into an immovable structure, i hold and push and hold and push that clay until it maybe, just maybe, gives me a taste of the divine.
