When you’re humbled by a lump of clay
I was mortified.
Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic. But I was genuinely embarrassed and seriously considered leaving (with my tail tucked between my legs).
At the beginning of the year, as part of my annual goal-setting effort, I decided I’d try at least four new things as a way to challenge my brain and get outside my comfort zone. One of the ideas I selected was to take a beginning wheel-throwing pottery class.
The class began last week and during introductions I mentioned that I don’t have art experience of any kind (save for junior high). Most of my eleven fellow students have some art background and many even have experience with ceramics. The situation harkened back to my college photography class in which I was the only student from the business school; my professor couldn’t find anything praiseworthy about my shots so his grading remarks said I had “very precise printing skills.” (And, as you’ll see below, the pottery class is going about as well, so far.)
After a brief demonstration and some verbal instructions the teacher turned us loose to begin throwing; our goal was to make a basic tumbler. Staring at my lump of clay, I hovered over the wheel and tried to recall all the steps she’d given us. My station was in a row of four; on either side of me, the wheels began to spin and I watched my classmates start to center and shape their tumblers.
I rolled the clay blob into a sphere with a slightly pointed bottom (as instructed) and slapped it down on the wheel. Cautiously depressing the pedal, my wheel jerked and began to rotate slowly. I got my hands wet and cupped the clay, allowing the circular force to press it into the center of the wheel while smoothing the sides. As the friction warmed my hands, I reached for a little more water from the bucket sitting at about one o’clock on my station.
And then it happened.
My clay shot off the wheel, landing about four feet to my left under another student’s station.
Clay 1; Kirsten 0.
Mind you, all eleven of the other wheels are spinning away and my classmates are all succeeding at this first foray of the night. I was the only one to whom this happened. The teacher came over, helped me get the clay off the ground, and suggested I get a new lump as this one was now too wet to use (and a little dirty).
I cut another piece of clay and warmed it up. I slapped the clay down with even more fervor than my previous attempt in hopes of anchoring it successfully to the wheel. I took a deep breath, wet my hands again, and started the wheel spinning.
Ah, I’ve got this.
And I did!
Until I didn’t.
As soon as I had to rewet my hands, it happened again. This time the clay shot in a different direction: directly toward the bucket. And it went with such force that it knocked the bucket off my station, spilling water all over the floor.
Clay 2; Kirsten 0.
Happening once was embarrassing.
Happening a second time (when it hadn’t happened to anyone else) was more than embarrassing.
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
When the water was unceremoniously ejected from the bucket it flooded the power strip that was connected to my station… and the three others surrounding me. It shorted out, bringing the wheels—and work—of my classmates to a screeching halt.
Clay a bajillion; Kirsten less than zero.
After apologizing a few hundred times to everyone, cleaning up and helping ensure power was restored to their wheels, I stood in front of my station, wondering where I’d gone wrong. Twice. The teacher said she’d come help me but she was also tending to the needs of all the other students and never returned. (I suppose that’s reasonable but I admit I thought my situation warranted immediate attention!) I felt like leaving. I’d been prepared to be stretched. Humbled even. That’s why I’d signed up in the first place! But this felt downright humiliating. Disappearing into the summer twilight sounded most appealing.
But then I recalled something the teacher had said during the initial demonstration: “You’re the boss of the clay. You tell it what to do.” Though her words had preceded my mishaps, they gave me the gumption to try a third time. (I can’t help wondering what the women next to me were thinking when I spun up the wheel again… Maybe it’s better that I don’t know?)
But this time I genuinely succeeded. Please don’t ask me what was different; I don’t know. After seeing that the instructor wouldn’t get to me for quite a while, I simply repeated the same steps a third time. And I somehow managed to center and shape a small tumbler from my malformed piece of clay (peep it here). It’s far from perfect but represents—to me anyway—the courage to try again.
While this post is chiefly meant to bring a moment of levity to your day at my expense, I am mindful of an important biblical truth God is teaching me through it. God is the potter; we are His clay, His creation. In the words of my ceramics teacher, He’s the boss of the clay. We have no business telling Him what to do with our lives. This experience proved to be a vivid depiction of what happens when the “clay” is (or thinks it is) in charge: it careens off course, away from the center of God’s loving guidance, sometimes wreaking havoc on those around it in the process.