I love the feel of clay. Something about the freedom of "pressing" creation, that imposing of my expression and having it retained in a physical form, is indescribably desirable, concrete, satisfying.
Around me, the joy of cooler weather and company of experienced individuals sharing that same drive, culminates in an excitable agitation which bleeds happiness. One cannot stand in their presence without succumbing to the bump in energy level. They are smiles and kindness and they know what's important in life. They share it and welcome each other's presence as any respectful family who have found each other after decades of trial and error in this life. And they welcome my similarity, patience, and individual spark. It's easy to create in their presence.
My fingers glide over the clay and I find that I move as I would when massaging tight muscles. The comparison only strikes me after having been working on the head (a head likeness of a dear friend of mine) for several weeks now. I find that interesting, that that little nugget of analysis has slipped by me so far, quite certain its awareness rose to the surface because of a massage I had recently given.
It’s calming, the process of working clay, in that environment. I find it comforting to be given my own little space in the world, to be surrounded by such defined personalities who have seen and thought so much. The images and emotions they have played through their bodies over time is vast to embrace. A lifetime of wonder and dream, inspired thought from a rainbow or fresh cut grass, perhaps a diligent bumblebee to light the soul, children with illnesses, the presence of partners and family expressing deep love, or anger, pets who’ve warmed their feet and hearts, passing loved ones stirring sadness, joy of new birth and tiny strong fingers, laughter of every age touching their ears, squinting from sunrises, smiles to frame their eyes with line…
All of that is around me. I am honored among my sculpting mentors. They are all that. They are poem, some edited to concise refinement, some still being edited.
And they are poets, skilled fingers shaping thought for all to see. One doesn’t quite know what will come out of them, they have such a backlog of internal impression and some interesting pathways to the surface. They are also painters, sculptors of wood, actors, mothers and fathers to their creative impulse. They have earned this time, and quietly go about pressing their spirit into the clay of the world.
