Squirrels. Taking bites out of beautiful pumpkins. Grubby little paw and teeth marks. But I carved up this big beaut anyways.
Finding an old Dodge Power Wagon in the neighborhood made me feel like my daddy was right around the corner.
In my dream world I drive an old chevy. A 60′s version with my dog and manure in the truck bed and flower seeds in tow.
A bounty. Grown for me.
These days I’ve been throwing pots. Lots of pots. A couple clunkers but mostly good pots. I love making mugs. I love the different shapes and ways they fit in the hand. I mess up a handle most times.
Back to the wobbly beginning stages of learning a trade/or art. This is the 4th time I’ve been a beginning potter. Nerves in the belly and holding my breath on tricky parts. These are the best days. I want a bit of wobble to my pieces. It’s hard to recreate that wabi sabi nature when you’ve honed your skill so fine. I want pots like bodies. I want movement and a sweet clumsiness.
Oh and I love glazes. I think I’ve got opinions on glazes the way I do flowers. But I’m still learning how to grow and throw what I mean to love.
As for the rest.
I miss a bit of home. The people – my people. My god daughter has grown so tall. My friends are going through the struggles life hands down. My parents and grandparents are growing on and over old foundations grow vines -and under -buckling roots. It isn’t simple in my head or in my heart. I love and hold and cherish and question and chew and wonder and dream. These days I am working on finding compassion for myself. Worthiness even though I’m busted. Peace in-between trying to understand. Trying to let go of -understand- throwing pots for those places too. A pot to hold confusion. A pot to hold shame. A pot to hold compassion. Maybe one day a pot to hold joy.
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