The clay was wet as it moved against her palms. She could feel the gentle pulsing as the uncentered mound turned, again and again it went by – the one tiny irregularity that could throw off the whole piece if left unchecked. The texture was buttery as the surface turned to slip with each squeeze of the sponge in her hand, warm water on drying clay. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to make, only that she felt the need to create. It had been a long day, after all.

She could never put a thumb on why throwing always put her mind at ease; it was, after all, just a hobby she touched on in high school. Yet now it was like there could be no peace in her life without it. She was restless, always itching to use her hands, to build. Her works weren’t above par, but each was like a child she cared for and nurtured, until the final product stood glazed and gleaming. There was a love, strange as it may be, that flowed from her hands into the pliable clay. It was that love, shown in the final product, that made each piece priceless to her.

The wheel had always seemed to mimic life. Much like the squat, round form in her fingers now, things never started out grand. You had to work with it, smooth out the bumps and the falters before building. There was a balance, however unstable it may seem at the time, that led to accomplishment or failure. The great thing about clay was that it could always be recycled and renewed into something malleable yet again … something new.

Yet that was the only certainty in pottery; each work must survive its own trials, hardships, and frustrations. Would it survive the fire? No one could know. Each time you close that kiln you’re playing Russian roulette with hours and labor, and there is no knowing which will crack. A potter could spend a whole day shaping, smoothing every wrinkle, ensuring the clay didn’t get too thin, and still it could break under the stress, while another potter could spend minutes with better results. Some things crack, some things splinter, and some survive. She had had her fair share of disappointments.

She could use the correct tools, never use too much pressure or be too gentle, and keep the correct amount of moisture in the clay, yet she couldn’t control the direction it went in once she let it leave her hands. At this point, though, she could, so she pressed two fingers into the clay, creating an opening in the now centered mound.