In the beginning
I took the pot in my hand,
smoothed its surface
and sponged the dust away.
Pencil in hand,
I bravely allowed
the first faint tracing of a dancing woman.
The pot was round;
one woman led to another.
Limbs intertwined, connected.
Hands took flight.
Flight called to flight,
and small birds joined the dance.
Each woman’s face expressed the joy
I was feeling.
It was time to emphasize the lines
that would absorb the color.
A tiny instrument in hand,
I deepened the impression…
committing further
to this particular dance of joy.
How beautiful to be absorbed again
in the creative process,
to disregard the ache of my still healing arm!
How beautiful
to celebrate the dance again,
to trust the strengthening and rehabilitating gift
of making art!
Yes, I embraced the process,
though the next step in the process
obscured the lines.
I may have trembled as the green wash was applied,
Yet I had come to trust
the layering and un-layering that life requires,
I knew that here, too, was the possibility
of revelation.
I held the pot and gently rubbed its surface.
The thumb on my right hand
assumed a greenish hue…
as I forgot myself
in the enlightening moment
of re-emerging line.
More glaze was then applied:
a delicate rose brought warmth
to the dancer’s bodies.
The flying birds were lit
by a sunny yellow.
The next step in this dance
would be the alchemy of firing.
Just as dancing women encircle this little Pot, women encircle the table where I am learning to paint on pottery. Thanks to Patricia, Adele, Marie, and Nancy who guide my apprenticeship, and to Penny and Ruth who are mightily adept at working with molds. I have been made welcome by the warm and talented sisterhood who grace the workshop annex of Shearwater Pottery.
A Dance of Balance 