Sometime between the holiday frenzy and that late December lull, I made dozens and dozens of spoons and bowls that until yesterday were sitting un-fired in an avocado crate gathering clay dust. They’ve sat in my studio for so long that I don’t remember making many of them. The upside of a delay into the kiln is that I have distance from the work, and as such, the pieces don’t feel as precious to me. I’ve moved on to other projects that feel much more urgent and alive. Loss is an inevitable part of the process, and when we’re too close to our work, the loss can be shattering. I want the spoons to survive the kiln. It’s hours and hours of painstaking work. But if they don’t –– and I know some won’t –– I won’t feel the heartbreak as heavily as I would have done at the start of the year when I was fully immersed in that project. In yoga class, our teacher invites us to practice some detachment when thinking about what it feels like to be in our body today. “I notice some aches today” versus “I am aching.” When I can, I try to bring this same observer status to my work. The heart must feel reprieve from time to time, otherwise it might just explode.
