Earth, Air, Fire, Water

Every week, for the last four weeks, I’ve come away from a three-hour pottery class feeling down and out. Pottery’s a difficult hobby and I’m reminded of my lack of knack every seven days. But oddly enough, at the end of every class, I’ve also come away with some sort of lesson that’s revealed itself so trepidatiously that it’s only the next morning that I fully understand what I learned the previous night.

The first night my instructor told me that I seemed unsure of myself and suggested I try things out on my own first rather than turning to him for help. On the drive back home I dove into a deep hole of self-doubt and finally decided that people just didn’t get me. The next morning it dawned on me that his advice was, in fact, useful not only to pottery class but everyday life. The second week I learned that staying relaxed almost guaranteed a good pot and doubting one’s hand, one’s ability, and oneself would leave me with chunks of clay that simply refused to take shape. Week three reminded me that comparing my non-existent pot to those of my fellow potters would only lead to perfectly crafted feelings of jealousy and week four—in all its imperfection—scorned my attempts to create a perfect pot.

Still, at the end of every class, while waiting for the evening to wind down, I’ve snuck upstairs to a room with nothing but pots, books, and music and sat quietly soaking in the irony of the evening: So then here’s to a hobby gone wrong and an experience better than I could ever imagine.