in which pottery doesn't reach its end

Yesterday was the final day in pottery class, and I realize how fond I have grown of these women who mold the earth with their hands. No pot alike. No glaze entirely predictable. Everything some degree of mystery to those who attempt to make.

And pottery people like books, as it turns out.

And pottery people laugh.

And pottery people share what they know, encourage whenever they can.

I'll be returning, with my artist husband, to this small crowd to see if I can do more and do better with the granular, tempestuous stuff.