My hands become the vessel

squeezing the clay into shape

to center.

If I am not centered, the pockets of air cause a wobbling

ending in destruction

-wedging gone askew.

As if I hiccuped and forgot to place my foot correctly

oh the moments of slippage, spilling out from beneath perfectly placed fingers.

wobble

wobble slip and ripple.

Like many things done with time

finding the rhythm of patience becomes a practiced virtue

the clay demands-

be graceful, or i’ll cave in on you

like jello, like a rocky mountain shore

like a booby trap.

I find solace in the blind relationship of fingers on clay,

feeling the depth and the waves in my slow slow motions.  I close my eyes, and a deeper sense of knowing kicks in, a still point within my hands, between my heart, my eyes shut.

expanding my vision to extend to finished pieces.

I dont see the end,

Instead I Feel the movement, a slow one, opening – can be swift, shutting, if there is patience it is centered in the end.

The relation of I on eye

on eye,

and I on hand

with no eye

I

stop trembling, and form the vessel on center.

centering my hands.

Authors note: This was created after a day of centering on the wheel.  Learning to embody patience with the pieces I was opening and creating. I found I could tap into my own center when I was patient with the clay, allowing it to slip past my fingers, blindly, rather then pulling and pushing, working together with this element and with my body. With the simplicity of my hands i formed centered vessels, my eyes were getting in the way of me feeling centered, so i shut them. I like this metaphor and I like knowing I can accomplish a certain beauty while manipulating earth.