In clay I was allowed to fail; I loved my failings

Yesterday I said goodbye to the pottery ladies—and to Bobby D., too. The semester was over and I know, looking ahead, that there will not be time in my upcoming world for Wednesday-morning clay.

The thing about clay is that it allows you to fail. Smash it up. Try again. Recook the glaze.

The thing about working in a medium where no one expects you to succeed is that you leave without marks, reviews, evaluations. You laugh it off. You dive into gossip. You show up with your hair in a knot and no one asks for explanations. "What are you making?" they might ask. And I will say, "This."

The work here is the work of my semester. I experimented with trays, added an apple to my apple collection, built an old-looking pot, bent a grid, punched holes into a bowl so that I might someday weave burlap through it.

Someday.

Oh, Pottery Ladies and Bobby D., I will miss you. Thank you for making room for this novice.