Thoughts of a potter...

The cold was almost unnoticeable. It got that way when things were going well. The shape was good, but not quite where he would have it. A bit more of a flare, tighten in the bottom... good. A bit more water, a few finishing touches with the ribs and loops, and done.

As the now comppleted thrown pottery form was pulled free on it's bat from the bat pins, there was a definite sense of accomplishment. Not that he was attached to the piece, it may destroy itself yet, as pieces were wont to do. No, just the simple act of making was sufficient. To see the formless blob of clay be shaped and turned into a vessel with function and purpose was sufficient to placate his need to build, to create, to... To make the world just a tiny bit better.

He pondered on this thought as he set the pottery laden bat aside on a shelf and reached for a fresh one. As he scooped a handful of clay and began the rhythmic motion of wedging, the thought stayed. "Why is it, exactly, that I come out here in the cold of winter, or the heat of summer, and do this, over and over and over again"? It definitely was not making him rich. Oh, there were those who purchased his work, to be sure, a mug here, or a pie plate there. Even once in a while, when he felt silly, he would make a piggy bank from a straight sided wide bottle form, finishing it off with a cork "snout" in the neck of the once bottle. These always sold, eventually.

Nor would it glean him great acclaim. Not that he wanted it. The rhythmic motion of the wedging had done its work, the clay was now smooth and uniform. As he firmly slapped it onto the wheelhead, all these thoughts moving through his mind, there in his cold, barely heated workspace, he thought also about his beginnings with clay. The outlet was one that had challenged him many years before. It had gone from painfully difficult, to marginal, to decent, to... well, less than adept, in his estimation. For one should never feel that one is as good as one can get at anything. But good enough that others were willing to pay him to teach them what he had learned. As the thought of his students and their fledgling abilities came to his mind, it brought both a smile, and a sudden realization. The need to create had been planted in him. And like He who had planted the need, there was coupled with it a desire to teach others, to help them to be more, to... to help them, as one had long ago helped him, to make the world a tiny bit better.

The clay was moving with his hands now, smoothly, as it should. The smile stayed, and the feeling of gratitude remained deep. Gratitude for the ability that had been won through trial and difficulty, and for the newfound understanding that was his. The new form was taking shape well in his hands. As the hope sprang that he was taking shape well in the hands of another.