malleable

There I was, uncontrollably trembling and trying my hardest to mind-trick the massive tears, billowing up, into retreating. My face was about to become the perfect storm- something I had refrained from happening for my three years of academic hell. If I am being honest, until I found my place, what has seemed my career of studentdom has been pretty-much as brutal. There I was in front of my favorite professor, about to confess what I had been in denial about all-along: I cannot make it.

I am not a quitter. I had to, practically, be beaten to death with illnesses in order to make me realize I had to bow out. I could not believe I had to tolerate the bureaucracy and backstabbing, only to succumb to defeat now. Here I was, recently returned from medical withdrawal, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to roll. It was refreshing most of the negativity had been washed out with the last students’ graduations. Although my time here was not the same, if I searched deep within, I knew it really was. This time the source of illness was easy to find. Now, I was reacting from my passion: clay.

Not until years later, another graduate program, and a move up north would I learn answers and regain HOPE. I could not let my passion go, nor could I extinguish my drive to have it integrated into my daily life. From my first experiences squishing the red clay of Lake Wateree between my fingers and making mud pies around my grandparent’s seafoam cinderblock and utterly perfect lake home, clay became deeply ingrained in my soul. This is more than my passion; it is a love story and an innate sense of home.

Working with clay fosters a deep sense of connection to our ancestors, cultures, and earth. When I formulate clays and glazes from pigments, minerals, and chemicals from our earth, I cannot help but harness a profound respect for my surroundings. I have the ultimate sense of pride when I have crafted these ceramic facets from scratch. Even when I utilize pre-made materials, it does not alter my intense love of my craft.

Clay is the only medium within which I naturally think; it intrinsically motivates me to create. Other mediums take an extensive amount of time for my motivation and inspiration to develop. Its tangible nature generates an intimate process. Manipulating it into contextual sculptures or incorporating it into something utilitarian and cozy, such as a mug or a casserole dish demonstrates clay’s incredible diversity. It is fulfilling to be a part of peoples’ lives, potentially generations, simply by having crafted a significant piece for them; you are forever connected.

In 2014, when I was finally diagnosed with a systemic mast cell disorder: Mast Cell Activation Disorder, I finally learnt why clay had made me incredibly ill. My body seems to be cannon fodder for illnesses that get extremely confused and make certain cells attack intruders. Already, I had wizened myself to this type of condition from my diagnosis with Celiac Disease, coincidentally, the main illness that first pulled me from graduate school and my love affair with clay. Finally diagnosed and aware, I was told I could try to work with clay again. However, my being able to work with it safely was not guaranteed.

Once I moved back home and near the art gallery where I first learnt ceramic construction skills and eventually taught, I knew I could try to work with clay again. What a blessing it was to know the instructor and gallery operators well enough, for them to understand enough about my condition and not demand a full commitment to my new pottery class.

The night of my first class arrived. There I was, staring hungrily at the material I had been restricted from. Everyone that has known me and my deep connection and love for clay had been praying, wishing, and sending positive thoughts for a safe return. The bag holding my future was open, and it sat weightily on the canvased craft table, staring at me. Just enough of the plastic wrapping was pulled down, exposing the clay. There, in front of me, could not be a stronger metaphor of how I felt: exposed and vulnerable. Inhaling deeply, I gripped the wooden handles of my wire tool, laced the adjacent wire through my index and middle fingers, and tightly wrapped the wire around my fingers. My hands separated enough to pull the wire taught and my thumbs extended to both control and add extra tension to the wire, as I positioned them over the clay body. I pushed the wire down and heaved a sigh of relief; my anticipation was almost unbearable. Replacing my thumbs to my fists, I pulled the wire upwards. After repeating this, I completed one final pull of the clay body towards me. Ultimately my clay was divided into four, roughly equal, pieces that I formed into balls of clay. My intention was to go full-throttle and head towards the potter’s wheel.

The feelings that both time seemed stand still and that my feet could not escort me quickly enough seemed to sandwich reality; it was a mere five feet away. Somewhat comforting was the affirmation I was still okay after being in the dusty room and handling my clay. Finally, I was able to sit at the wheel, after gathering my materials. It was heaven. My muscle memory did not fail me. It seemed second nature to center, open, and pull the walls of my clay into utilitarian forms. Both my elation and relief almost sent me into a hysterically happy sobbing mess. Even though I held it together throughout the duration of my class, my joy bubbled over the second I put my car into drive. I could hardly wait to share the news with my family and friends. My gratitude to God was enormous. I could not believe I was given such a blessing, and I still cannot believe my good fortune.

Although I had a breakthrough, my career took me elsewhere and I had to anxiously await until the forces that be aligned for me to work with clay again. In 2017, I earned a job teaching art. I wish I could encapsulate the joy I had sharing my beloved medium again with our youth. It was intoxicating. Most of my art students came into and left class saying pottery was their favorite to learn, no matter the skill-level, type of project, or history utilized. Manipulating clay and sharing this visceral connective thread was empowering to our students. This was not a showcase of talent, such as drawing facial features, the playing field was level.

During this time, I had fallen in love with my best friend, and we were married. That summer, we adopted a critical rescue puppy. Right at the start of the pandemic, we had bought our first home. Soon I was adapting my art teaching to the virtual format, and helping my students acclimate to our new normal. Even though I was sad to lose the ability to teach my students ceramics, I enjoyed other aspects of teaching remotely. However, my journey into illnesses had not left me with my last major diagnosis and, once again, I found my life derailed and my hopes and dreams thwarted.

Eventually I found myself on unpaid Federal Medical Leave Assistance and, at the end of this past June, I reluctantly resigned from the job I loved. Hope is not lost. Although I am swimming in the unknown, I have been through these murky circumstances before and I will not give up. I am still here, passionate, and completely capable on my good days- eager to discover where my new journey will take me and to get my hands into clay once again.