I recently received an invitation to attend a pottery evening hosted by a friend of mine. Now, I’m not really one for messing about with my hands. My fingers feel claustrophobic when they get covered in sticky stuff; I don’t know what to make; and I like something I can use straight away, without having to wait for it dry and be fired!
However, this invitation got me interested. It included a free drink. And we were making cups. How could I say no to the opportunity to make my very own coffee cup? A treat indeed.
But a niggling insecurity at my abilities (or lack of) kept me from saying yes.
I know. I’d ask a friend. A friend who loves working with clay and ‘doing pottery’. If she’s keen, I’m keen; if not, I’ll give it a miss. And just go and buy a couple of cups for myself.
Of course, my friend said yes.
And then I thought to invite a second friend. An artist.
And she said yes.
No backing out now; I was going to a pottery evening.
The day dawned. Well, the sun set and the evening began.
We arrived at the venue, to be greeted by three or four long tables ready and waiting for our attendance. Tools of differing sizes and shapes; a selection of sponges; bowls of water; and rolled out pieces of dull brown clay.
After choosing the style of cup we all wanted to make, we got started cutting shapes out of our clay sheets. I arranged and rearranged my template pieces, using every available bit of clay. Why make one cup, when I can make two?
After much laughter, many questions and a bit of trial and error, I eventually had two cup sides and two cup bottoms. So far so good.
Now to assemble the pieces.
Not as easy as it sounds, as it turned out.
I twisted and cajoled. I scraped and smoothed. I squashed and squeezed. I made a bit of a mess.
Beside me, my pottery buddy carved and decorated. My artist friend shaped and perfected. And I kind of gave up.
The teacher came to check on me.
“Be patient. Don’t be so rough. Love the clay.”
Oh goodness, I am far too impatient, too hurried, to be a potter. I don’t connect, I don’t engage, with the clay in the way I saw others do. I don’t love it. And my fingers itch to escape.
So, while I might not be putting the lid on my pen in favour of a career in cups, I did get to think about a few things.
Perhaps it isn’t by chance that both the prophets Isaiah and Jeremiah liken us, God’s people, to clay in the potter’s hand.
But now, O Lord , you are our Father; we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand. Isaiah 64:8
Behold, like the clay in the potter’s hand, so are you in my hand. Jeremiah 18:6
This speaks of His moulding, of His shaping, of our lives. But until my brief foray into the world of pottery, I’d never thought about how that shaping takes place. It turns out that the process is a whole lot more gentle than I imagined it. It’s slow. It’s careful. The potter is deliberate. And patient.
Certain tools are used for certain tasks; one cuts, another scrapes. A little drop of water here, and a rough edge is massaged smooth. A gentle caress and the object becomes more defined, more obvious. Its use becomes apparent and what was a clump of uninspiring dirt becomes an object of beauty.
Pottery takes time. There’s lots of sitting around and waiting. Of chatting and pausing.
The potter doesn’t rush the clay. And enjoys the process as much as the finished article; perhaps something to remember when next I am ‘being clay’.