Chapter 8 #2
She watched as Lance made himself comfortable in front of the wheel.
Her shoulders twitched as she lifted the mug to her lips.
This was ridiculous. How on earth was she going to be able to mould a pot when she couldn’t keep her body steady?
She tried to concentrate on what Lance was saying and the delicious sweetness of the chocolate.
Soon she became mesmerised by the turn of the wheel, the way Lance drew up the edges of a ball of clay with his fingertips explaining as he worked.
She settled back into her seat and listened to his voice.
It was deep, smooth and brimming with enthusiasm.
Enthusiasm, the Greek word for the god within, divinely inspired.
She could see how he would inspire people, even those who probably had little aptitude for throwing a pot.
As he made eye contact with them all in turn, she found it difficult to believe that he would ever say a bad word about anyone.
‘First and foremost, I want you to be kind to yourselves. When we start something new it’s best not to rush headlong into it, and keep your expectations…
not low exactly, but manageable. If you aim too high from the outset you risk frustration and disappointment.
By expecting too much, too soon, we may put ourselves and our projects at risk of being less than they could be if we allowed ourselves to be present and free of judgement.
I know that you are only here for a few hours and that you will want to go away with something to be proud of, which I hope will be the case.
But I’d like you to think of this as the beginning of a journey.
For some of you, you may return to develop your skills, for others, maybe all, this may be the gateway to another creative endeavour.
Whatever the outcome this day, what you produce won’t be wasted.
Nothing is ever wasted. Every experience has something to teach us, about ourselves and others.
Throwing pots is a way of slowing down. That is why my wife and I came here, to reclaim our lives after we both became burnt out by city living.
Unfortunately, she became ill soon after we moved to the island, but I knew that she wouldn’t want me to give up on our dream, and all creative endeavours begin with a dream. ’
As he worked the wheel, something stirred in Jules’s memory – a feeling of being at one with what she was doing. She felt her shoulders drop a little and a loosening in that place at the base of her neck which had become so persistently tight and sore.
‘The speed of the wheel is really important,’ he said. ‘Not too fast and not too slow. Nice and steady. Remember that the clay wants to be formed into something.’
A smooth bowl was taking shape, his hands firm, but gentle.
He had very nice hands, Jules thought, with long, slender fingers and tactile thumbs expertly working the clay until he was satisfied with what he had created.
He made it look so easy, but Jules knew from past experience that it wasn’t.
She thought back to her school days, when elbow deep in clay she had got so frustrated with the medium that wouldn’t do what she wanted, and how she had nearly given up.
Then one day she had stopped trying so hard and given herself the freedom to follow what wanted to be born from this unpromising piece of earth, not expecting it to be perfect or to fulfil all her expectations, just allowing it to be something.
She remembered the euphoria that followed, and how after that revelation she looked forward to those lessons, which would always be over far too quickly.
But that was then and this was now, and so much had happened.
She wasn’t the same person. She would never be the same again after what Gavin had done.
Lance moved around the room, sitting with each person in turn, talking to them about the best way for them to sit, how to hold the clay, how to use their arms, their wrists, their hands, their fingers.
First Daphne, then Iris, then John, then Carrie and next it was to be her turn.
She felt the panic rise inside her and that part of her spine at the base of her neck was jammed solid again, a dull ache radiating out across her shoulder blades and up behind her right ear.
‘Jules, you okay?’
She was suddenly aware of him bending over her.
He was close, too close. She could smell the fabric conditioner on his creased navy linen shirt, see the hairs glistening gold on his forearms. He pulled up a stool and sat next to her.
She sat stock still, unable to move, barely able to breathe.
She couldn’t do this. She really couldn’t.
‘There’s absolutely no pressure here,’ he murmured. ‘The only pressure is from yourself.’
She managed the smallest of nods, so small she thought he wouldn’t notice, but he did because he dipped his head in acknowledgement, a loose curl falling forwards on his forehead.
‘It’s clay,’ he whispered. ‘You can’t not touch it. It’s one of the most tactile substances around. May I?’ His hand hovered above hers.
She nodded and he lifted her wrist, placing her palm upon the wedge of clay in front of her. If he was aware of her flinching, he didn’t let on. Instead, he placed his own palm over the back of her hand and held it in place.
‘There,’ he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smile. ‘That’s not too terrible, is it?’
‘No,’ she whispered, feeling the warmth of his skin and the coolness of the clay and veering between wanting to run as far and fast as she could and staying right there for ever.
‘You’re the expert,’ he whispered. ‘No one else has done anything like this before.’
‘It’s a long time ago.’
‘You won’t have forgotten what to do,’ he said. ‘That learning process will still be there inside. You just have to let it out. I’m sure you could make something more complicated, but a bowl will give you confidence.’
He leaned back, but kept his hand connected to hers.
‘We take bowls for granted,’ he said to them all, ‘but they are full of symbolism. They represent the Divine Feminine, creative fulfilment, abundance and nourishment. Bowls are used for sharing food, but also for sustaining ourselves. They have been used in rituals and celebrations for thousands of years. A circular bowl can remind us of unity and wholeness, of giving to ourselves and to others, and it doesn’t have to be perfect. ’
An imperfect bowl. She could do that. She’d never been a fan of perfection.
Gavin had been the one chasing that and she’d got caught up in his quest. She’d tried to make herself perfect for him, bought new make-up, new clothes which were completely impractical and not really her, some ridiculously expensive shoes, and spent a fortune which she couldn’t afford on her hair trying to obliterate those coppery strands that he didn’t like.
And look where all of that had got her. Her bowl could even have a wavy rim.
She liked waves and ripples and quirky things.
It could be perfectly imperfect. It could be a symbol of the new her.
‘Remember to breathe,’ he said softly.
She was acutely aware that his hand was still on hers, holding it gently, but firmly against the clay.
‘Remember to connect with your breath, everyone,’ he said to the others. ‘Making pots is about many things: patience, trust, strength, posture and breath. Everything is connected. We’re all connected, to each other and to the clay. It’s our oldest handicraft. It’s in our DNA.’
For a moment his eyes met hers and illogically she felt pure terror.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
She nodded. Anything to get him to remove skin to skin contact, to stop him being so kind. It was more than she could bear.
‘Off you go then,’ he said, moving away and turning back to Carrie whose beginnings of a bowl had collapsed, resulting in part laughter, part frustrated expletives.
Jules dipped her hand in the bowl of water, pressed her foot to the treadle and the wheel began to turn.
After a few false starts and some staring out of the window, she began to feel remnants of memory returning; memory which wasn’t just in her head, but in her entire body.
Maybe if she just let her body take the lead, she thought.
The wheel was immersive. Jules couldn’t think about anything except the water, the clay, her feet, her hands, the form in front of her which grew and shrank and collapsed and grew again, keeping her totally in the moment.
And suddenly she realised that this was good, that it made her forget for a while, that it was just what she needed.
At lunchtime they were directed to a long pine table outside under the trees.
John pulled out a chair for her. Gavin used to do that.
Always a gentleman on the surface. Lance fetched a cushion for Daphne, whose back was aching, and Carrie cut slices from a crusty loaf while Iris poured them all a tall glass of summer fruit cordial, making sure everyone had a piece of strawberry, a raspberry and a sprig of mint.
They were nice, these people, she thought as she listened to them chatter about their morning’s attempts and the feast of food laid out in front of them; a delicious selection of salads, cold fish and meats arranged on vintage crockery.
Kind people. If they knew how stupid she had been, how ashamed she was of her gullibility, they would wrap her in understanding.
Besides, who knew what they themselves had been through, what mistakes they had made, failures they’d had to overcome?