I've unloaded my kiln and it was a bit of a blow. The bottom glaze of the above mug is not the eggshell I am used to, but rather a shade that tends more toward egg yolk. This picture doesn't really capture my point (for photography work, I usually go here, but this one I took myself). Trust me when I tell you this, my eyeballs see yellow even if my camera lens does not. Since eggshell happens to be one of my favorites, my pots were pretty well smothered in it. So it was a bit of a shock to see the yellow strangers peering back at me from the kiln. Yet, although it took a while, I have decided not to mourn the fact that the pots did not want to become white, but rather to rejoice in the fact that they chose to be yellow.
Frankly, I don't have time to be a picky artist. And thankfully, my husband tells me the color isn't the monstrosity I first imagined. C'est différent, that is all. He even prefers the yellow. Now that my eyes have grown accustomed to it, I can see the appeal. That said, with the next glaze firing, I'll be fixing my eggshell. I've made lemonade with my lemons and now I want to go back to making milk, chromatically speaking. In other news, I had lunch with an old friend today. The last time I saw her we were both young and unencumbered. We met today each with a child in tow. The stark contrast in our circumstances between our last encounter and this one, coupled with how little each of us has changed, gives proof to the nature argument. People, I have found, don't tend to alter much over time. I'd like to think we become wiser, but experience does not change our rhythm of speech or our sense of humor. A comforting thought as my skin gradually becomes more and more unrecognizable in the mirror; at least when I stop recognizing myself, I'll still get my jokes. After four hours and surprisingly little whining we are back home. I was even gone long enough to have that eerie feeling when I pulled into the driveway where the house seemed a little strange. Although a large part of this reaction was because Spring has sprung at the Shuker abode even though I wasn't here to watch. The hostas poked through, the day lilies quadrupled in size and most strikingly, the cherry tree is in full blossom.
A welcome surprise because the day after a holiday tends to need a little pick-me-up. Easter baskets have lost their appeal with nothing left but a few black jelly beans and dried out peeps. The herd of cousins has been disbanded and the quiet that remains is an audible reminder of the missing playmates. No sooner were we out of the car than the questions started about when we were going back. And the kids are not the only ones who feel the loss of companionship. Conversation around the kitchen table once the younger generation are in bed is such a treasure of sleepover holidays. The hokey pokey, if you will, of family gatherings and I miss it already. No doubt that is why we stayed up until 3am into Easter morning. Who wants that magic to end? But, back to the routine: dinner, bath time, story time, bed time; for the kids, at least. This anxious potter has trimming and glazing to do. I haven't had the guts to lift the plastic on the vases I made the evening before I left. They need to be trimmed and if too much air got to them, they will be ruined. Once I deal with that matter (which will take no time at all if evaporation has had its way with my developing pots) it is on to glazing. If I am to get three firings done before the 11th, I must commence immediately. Playtime is over, my friends; time to get my game on. As a parent to three small children, I am no stranger to chaos. Clamoring, pounding and shattering comprise the auditory ambiance of my home. So one would think just adding more children would constitute more of the same. Such is not the case. My sister has four children of her own and together these little darlings form a band of something that is other; not quite children anymore. Rather, a pack of beasts that takes on characteristics of its own; moving like crows in a harvested corn field, following an invisible lead, bouncing from area to area as one, turmoil following them wherever they light. Now that they are a bit older they can be cajoled into cleaning up after themselves, a vast improvement to previous gatherings, but left unchecked a carefully cleaned home can be thrown into an unrecognizable disarray in a matter of moments, expected guests be darned.
With more children on the way, the decibel level isn't expected to return to a non-damaging degree until after lights out, mercifully sometime around 7:30 p.m. The saving grace this holiday weekend is the beautiful weather we've been blessed with. Faith is restored as the band of merry nymphs are sent outside into the sunshine to hoist their havoc onto the welcoming outdoors, deaf to their fracas and jubilee alike. That is until parched throats and tired legs drive them back inside with a whine that is a barely disguised desperate plea for a nap. Much as calm isn't to be found during these occasions, it isn't really welcome here. The rowdy crew that pulses by is the life force of our family. Silence would come at a price, representative of a gathering drained of vitality. The grown-up time in the late evening is just that much sweeter once the quiet descends, after the last of the giggling has abated. So until then, we redirect and tolerate; in the back of our minds already predicting the nostalgia we will feel for these days when they are gone. It is times like these, in which the balls I have in the air will presumably drop down and knock me unconscious if I don't keep moving, that it is most important to remember how many of those balls are imaginary. Ok, it's an analogy, so all of them, but you get my point. No matter how long the to do lists or how much pressure I feel to get everything done, the spinning of the world, changing of the seasons, and the structure of society in general will manage to continue, even if I were to stop moving completely.
I have seen this happen in other people's lives many times through my work as a nurse. Tragedy strikes, priorities buoy to the top and all of the other mundane 'have to's get pushed off or transformed to 'don't really have to at all's. I say, why wait for a car accident to take advantage of that insight? As is the case with life at times, things all seem to be happening at once. Spring is here and my books tell me several seeds are ready to get a move on in the garden. Easter is upon us and my sister is hostessing a grand affair at her home in which myself and my cousin have been designated co-chefs and need to devise a menu pronto. Then there's the pottery, pottery, pottery; silently waiting to be glazed, or trimmed or all-together thrown. Sprinkle in a few kids and a house that, I swear, oozes dirty laundry and dishes, and what you have is a recipe for meltdown. But, everything's okay here. Situation normal. The guru tells me even if I'd done nothing yet for my garden, I'd still be fine. Seeds can wait. They're seeds for crying out loud. It's their job. The family meal? I will be in town a good day and a half early. Plenty of time to shop for and prep a large meal. Plus, there will be almost as many children as adults. I'm guessing there isn't going to be a huge need to go all out for a short statured crew whose main course for the day will be hand delivered in a basket. The Pottery? I will not be empty handed at the craft show. Furthermore, if I were to sell everything I've already made, it would be a great day. I know from experience laundry and dishes will hold (or the hubs will take care of them) and children are remarkably self sufficient, even at a young age. Today my toddler found a couple of peeps in a bag. He couldn't get it open so he chewed his way through. Now the safety issue of this situation notwithstanding, even at eighteen months a child is able to make do; especially with the right motivation. (Sugar: kids as Narcotics: adults.) So to heck with those balls in the air. The time has come to let them go, sit back, and channel Doris Day. Que Sera, Sera. |
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February 2024
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