Touching you I catch midnight
As moon fires set in my throat
I love flesh into blossom
I made you
And you made
Into me
-Audra Lord
A week or so ago, I gifted my fifty-fourth pot, marking the halfway point of my 108 Pots Project. As it happened, that occasion also coincided with the summer solstice, a day that has historically honored renewal and the celebration of both growth and abundance in many cultures. Here in the northern hemisphere, it’s also of course the period of greatest daylight, and that’s always seemed to me like a natural time for reflection as well. That the halfway point of my pots project also coincided with my 50th birthday made this opportunity for contemplation all the more meaningful.
When I began the pots project last October, it was with the loosest of plans. I knew only that clay had something important to teach me, and that by apprenticing myself to that medium, I might find both the inspiration and grounding needed for a more resilient, more creative life.
Nine months later, I can report that I am at least a marginally better potter: I can mostly center a ball of clay on a wheel, and while the resulting pots are rarely (if ever) perfectly symmetrical, most of them can at least be fixed with careful trimming. I’ve discovered that I distrust glaze entirely (or at least my ability to apply it) and that I possess an undying passion for digging and working with wild clay. Along the way, I’ve become blissfully preoccupied with the art of pinching pots and all the quiet, sensual immediacy that technique requires.
These, of course, are the tangible lessons. The more metaphysical lessons gleaned from the 108 Pots Project so far are, perhaps not surprisingly, more difficult to describe.
From the start, I wanted this project to be one that fostered gratitude. I knew I wanted to gift each of the pots, not with the intent of fostering economy or exchange, but rather, in the spirit of radical generosity advanced by great thinkers like Hélène Cixous and Lewis Hyde. By giving these pots, I hoped to focus entirely on others: the value (and values) of each recipient, the inherent creativity they’d need to decide if and how to use this gift.
I knew I would relish this act of gifting and what it had to offer. What I didn’t anticipate was how much I would cherish the ways clay requires us to give of ourselves as well.
To become something worth keeping, clay asks for a very particular kind of reciprocity—one that begins with the ceramicist’s humility, their willingness to surrender control. Forming a relationship with clay requires a willingness to submit, to recognize that the power of the four elements will always be greater than our own. Clay also asks for stillness and patience, and that we give ourselves over to the uncertainty of the days and weeks and even months it takes for a project to be completed. That, in turn, requires that we embrace a spirit of interdependence, a willingness to invest strength and breath, hope and heart, skin and soul, all in the spirit of mutual creation.
When everything goes exactly right—when the ceramic daemons shine down and through us—we are rewarded with the gift of a beautiful object. But what I’m also learning is that the real gift comes less from the resulting object and far more from the process of giving itself.
Cultural anthropologists refer to these moments as generalized reciprocity: the act of giving freely and without any expectation of return. When it comes to interpersonal relationships, this kind of reciprocity, like all true gifts, allows us to honor connection and intimacy, to celebrate the beloved.
The very same can be said for our relationship to clay.
From the moment it first touches our hands, we offer clay the warmth of our bodies, the willingness of our skin to take in moisture. Perhaps not surprisingly, so many of the verbs used to describe the act of working with pottery are unapologetically erotic: kneading and clasping, coaxing and tugging, rubbing and plunging. Working with clay, we learn how to be both carnal and tender, to become the most generous of lovers.
And that, I think, is undoubtedly the most meaningful (not to mention delightful) revelation this project has offered thus far.
Days after the untimely death of running legend Steve Prefontaine, his coach and mentor Bill Bowerman held a eulogy at the Eugene, Oregon, track where Pre had trained. Bowerman timed his words to last twelve minutes and thirty-six seconds, the exact time Pre thought he’d need to set a new world record for the three-miler. In his concluding remarks, Bowerman reflected on the greatest lesson Pre had taught him: “the real purpose of running isn’t to win a race; rather it’s to test the limits of the human heart.”
I have held that idea deep in my own heart for decades. I run to remind myself of the strength inherent in all of us. Pushed to seemingly unimaginable limits, a healthy human heart doesn’t stop. Instead, it works harder, beats faster. It stays present, no matter the strain thrust upon it.
As formative and foundational as that belief has been in much of my own life, I’m learning it’s really only one approach to a meaningful existence. These days, I’m a lot more interested in different cardiac capacities—the kind that manifest not in solitary quests, but through communion and creation. Clay requires its own kind of strength, yes. But far more importantly, it asks that we open ourselves to abundance and unending possibility. In return, clay expands the heart, enlivens the soul. It encourages us to abandon ego and expectation in favor of exploration and the Other.
I did not come to this project expecting – or even wanting – to learn about the act of falling in love. But as it turns out, in the world of clay it’s hard to separate one from the other. And given all the myriad gifts clay has to offer, why would you ever want to?
—Kate
Beautifully said Kate! Your journey continues with an open heart and incredible possibility!!🥂❤️