Katie Joy Pottery

When Clear Isn't Clear

2010-08-20T08:29:00.001-05:00

"That's not how I want it mom! I want it how I painted it," she said with a disapproving look as she watched me this morning. I was pouring a clear glaze over a piece of pottery that my daughter had done.

Clear glaze isn't clear. This particular one is a very drab shade of brown that a paint company would probably call 'Dishwater Taupe' in a weak effort to spice it up to sell. Her reaction got me thinking that it's easy to get disappointed in life when our efforts appear to be 'dishwater taupe'. We put effort into relationships even when we know they don't all work out, we put effort into businesses even when we know they don't all stay afloat, and then sometimes -when we've given up and moved on- thinking the color won't ever show through- they show up with brilliant colors. The business, or relationship makes it into the kiln and through the firing. They/It takes the heat and uses it for good.

Blessed are the cracked...

2010-08-09T19:27:00.000-05:00

Blessed are the cracked for they let in the light. Yup. I'm a little cracked. I realized today that its not all my fault though. Today as I searched in vain, I realized I own a pair of pliars that shows up only when it wants to, rarely when it's needed and occasionally when there's no need. The same goes for my scissors, though I strongly suspect the six year-old in my household for that one. I am a five pair of scissors household and can rarely find one. I did however find my favorite tote bag with the bottom cut out of it because the blue-eyed wonder I call my son "thought it would look good with fringe." His words exactly. Don't even get me started on paintbrushes or toothpaste caps. My pottery area I protect as if it were the last morsel of food left on the planet.

Saturday, as I showed my good friends the work I was doing in my kitchen- they saw their names on envelopes sitting on the counter. I had unearthed thank you notes from God-knows-when while painting- apparently they never made it to the post office. If they hadn't noticed, I highly doubt the thank you notes would have ever made their destination until fifty years later. I can see the headline now, "Friends receive long-lost thank you notes from highly acclaimed artist" Perhaps in fifty years I'll be highly acclaimed...

Anyway, you wouldn't have to dig too far in this tiny town to find someone who can back up my "slightly cracked" claim. We all are really. Even those incredibly organized people who appear to have it all together. From time to time, I can be found flicking pottery. Before you jump to the whole "cracked" theme, let me explain. Sometimes a pottery piece can look perfect, but its only when you flick it- or ding it as if trying to get newlyweds to kiss at a reception that you find out its true strength. There is a distinctive thud if the pottery has a hairline crack that can't be seen. If the pottery is sound, it rings. When it comes down to it, we all thud sometimes. We all have cracks. Though that's never a good thing where pottery is concerned, for us as humans, I can't help but be glad that we have cracks. All the better to let the light in.

Mothers and Mr. Attractive

2010-05-31T08:57:00.000-05:00

Two rows ahead of me, the most attractive man on the plane sat down next to my mother. Right next to the seat that I gave up! God hates me. Either that or he decided to call my bluff when I said I was giving up men- and no, I'm not going to the other side. God and I, we tend to playfully fight it out, poking and prodding each other seeing how far we can push the lines. And I gotta tell you, with God, no area is off limits. There’s no safe ground. Ruler of all, all knowledgeable, and He has no shame in pulling the mom card. I suppose I deserve it, God knows I’ve trampled all sorts of ground that should have stayed off-limits. So all I could do was smile as somewhere over Missouri, I overheard my mother telling the Twins-baseball-cap-wearing, no-ring-on-the-ring finger, low-sexy-voiced-man, about her daughter. Seriously. God hates me. By the time the plane landed and my Mother popped her head up from the two seats ahead of me I was braced for the worst. So what if Mr. Attractive just learned of you from your Mom. You don't care, you've given up the Mr. Attractive-and-I-know-it-kind-of men!

“Get Eli! This guy’s a hockey player! I want Eli to meet him.” All 142 passengers waiting to get off the plane look in our direction. Yes, Mr. Low-voiced-sexy- hockey player, she will embarrass you too… I nudge Eli on the shoulder and tell him Grandma has someone she wants him to meet. Then Mr, Attractive himself turns around and flashes a smile at Eli and I, and I hear myself say, “ Hey Eli look- it’s a hockey player…. with all his teeth!” Seriously. Who needs a Mom to embarrass them when they can do it so well on their own? The guy already had the perfect rough beard and kind intelligent eyes. How was I supposed to know he’d have such perfect teeth and I’d feel compelled to announce it to the whole plane? But Mr. Attractive doesn’t miss a beat, he said with a glint in his eye and a perfect smile, “They’re not mine.” And he grabbed his bag with his strong arms, muscular shoulders, kind intelligent eyes, perfect teeth and was gone.

So here’s to Mothers and Mr. Attractives. Life wouldn’t be nearly as fun without them.

Muddy Parallels

2010-05-21T10:46:00.000-05:00

I sat in the chair with tin foil sticking out from my hair. I flipped through a magazine I would normally never touch. Not really paying attention to the latest crazy styles or over-the-top pictures of fashion, I happened to glance down and see a picture that I immediately associated myself with. A woman in a dress was in a mud hole, covered with mud from head to toe and I thought to myself. "When did they take my picture?" You see, mud and I- we have a connection. When I began to read I became hooked. The author had just had a string of bad things happen to her and as she listed them it became apparent that she had a brilliant country song in the making. However, her story involving a near death experience in a backyard pond with mud is what I associated with. Oh the parallels.

She found out that sometimes the only way out is to be still. When life's storms or merely mud come from all sides, you've exhausted your strength in the fight and you're sinking in mud that feeds off your resistance- sometimes the best option is to stop, hold on, wait it out. Wait for the time when you are able to create your own luck again. Gather your strength and wait. Believe that your time will come.

Back Steps & Stars

2010-05-19T21:18:00.000-05:00

The cool air embraced me as I sat outside on the back step. The evening had just settled in and gotten comfortable, mellow light faded into calming dark blues. Cars no longer whizzed down the street and something akin to quiet infiltrated the air. Flexing my bare toes over the coarse gravel I call my back yard, I leaned my back against the screen door, and did my best to relax my shoulders.

"Have I always been this uptight?" I thought to myself. "When did I start running myself ragged from one project to the next almost without conscious thought?" Not that I was knocking it, because you see, my motivation soundlessly walked in the door and sat down at the breakfast table two days ago. I didn't make a fuss over it for fear it might vanish again. So, wordlessly I followed its lead. May I just add that anyone who has ever danced with me knows how hard it is for me to follow a lead. I have to close my eyes and force my brain to stop.

Forcing my brain to stop was the best possible thing. It's been rough the last few weeks. Ok, maybe months. I've faced so many of my fears- that I began to forget how far I have come. My destination looked hazy and out of reach and my obstacles came into clear focus. The thing is, for someone like me, I need forward motion. Something to be reaching towards. Standing still, stagnancy- it all screams STUCK to me. I long for the day when I will walk outside the back door of my own house in the country and let my bare feet feel the cool of grass in the evening. When even in the twilight I can see multitudes of stars clearly without city lights impeding. When I see the swoop of bats in the fading light and hear the rustle of the wind through my very own trees. It's such a simple dream and yet it is so far from my grasp.

However, for now, I closed my eyes and listened through the open window to the kiln buzzing just inside the door. Any second now it was going to reach cone 6 and be finished. I could hear a car or two go down Main Street, conversation from the neighbor house sifted through the air and someone coughed as they walked by. This may not be where I want to end up, but its enough for now. It's a stepping stone. I'll look back on this time (as my Grandma was so apt in pointing out) and be glad I learned what I did.

Beautiful Mistakes

2010-04-21T08:44:00.000-05:00

The business of a few became the business of many as another rumor spread from coffee cup to coffee cup (the only time I'm not talking about the merits of coffee or handmade pottery mugs) in this little town. I couldn't help but think about the human-ness of us all. How we crouch, ready to pounce on the next one of our kind who makes a mistake. There's something in us that wants to see others fail, and when they do, we feel a little more justified in our own mistakes, thoughts, or feelings. I hate it when my business becomes the business of many, and mostly, I'm embarrassed by my own shortcomings, for there are many. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't have to remind myself that life isn't about being perfect, its about the mistakes and learning. It's about caring more about the person than passing along the latest tidbit or holding fast to rules and regulations.

Once in a while when I'm throwing pottery, I get a pot that just won't do what I want it to do. The lip gets too thin and won't stay in place. It is in this mistake that I found beauty yesterday. The thin lip rippled and became something that I couldn't make if I tried. It wasn't what I wanted, it wasn't what I intended, but it happened. A beautiful mistake. So the next time you hear about a mistake of one of your kind, perhaps you'll consider before passing the rumor on to the next coffee cup, that we all have ripples. It wasn't what we wanted, or what we intended, but it happened and that when it comes down to it, we all are made up of beautiful mistakes.

...like a fish needs a bicycle

2010-04-20T08:58:00.000-05:00

The moment she walked in the door she stood out. She was short and trim, with long curly hair that reached three quarters of the way down her back and looked like it weighed more than she did. Her wide dark eyes spoke of calm intelligence and she had an accent that piqued curiosity. Perhaps now would be a good time to point out that in this town of 1500 or so, we are mainly tall Germans, or short, stocky (quirky too) Norwegians. Its not so rare when driving somewhere to see little yellow signs with funny dwarf looking men on them that say "Norwegian Crossing".

At any rate, this woman was different and beautiful. Her boyfriend came into the store with her and from the moment they walked in they were fun. They were into the Arts and had an appreciation for handmade pottery. They tried out all the mugs to see which one fit them best, and then they argued (as all good couples should) over the mug they both liked. As they looked around, they saw the hand painted windows that I have up around the store with fun or inspirational sayings. The woman smiled at me and said with a sparkle in her eye, "Those remind me of a saying I saw once. I think it was something like.... A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle." She grinned as she looked at her boyfriend. He laughed about it too. They were comfortable with each other and it was fun to watch.

A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle. That saying keeps popping up in my mind since I heard it. It's sassy, and I don't agree with it completely, but once in a while (watch out this blog is taking a very personal turn), when it seems that all I do is bring out the Schwinn in men, I start feeling a little troutish. Just for the halibut, lets say a rainbow trout (they're kinda pretty for a fish, right?), but a fish none-the-less. I know, I know- there's a lot of fish in the sea, but if you know anything about trout, you know they live in streams. And St. Ansgar is definitely a stream- probably more of a "crik" really- there's no sea around here. I think my odds are better with a bicycle.

Meatloaf and Pottery

2010-04-19T11:21:00.000-05:00

I woke up with a splitting headache and a sore throat. If I could have stayed in bed I would have. However, there were kids to get to school, and mugs and plates to trim. (When grabbing aspirin I noticed that I left out half a meatloaf last night. Hate it when I do that.) Yesterday I threw an assortment of pottery on the wheel and set them aside to dry to what is called leather hard (coincidentally the consistency of my dried out meatloaf.) To me, leather hard is a window of opportunity to apply handles, trim the bottoms of the pieces, and do hand carving. If I don't hit this window of opportunity just right, the pots are too dry, and I have to throw them in the clay recycle bucket and start the process over. All of that to say that I wasn't about to let a little old headache and sore throat get in the way of my window of opportunity this morning. If only I could save the meatloaf too.

Hell hath no fury like a...

2010-04-09T10:59:00.000-05:00

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned... or a potter trying to work on a deadline. Ok, so fury might be a little over the top- but deadlines- they don't meld so well with clay that dries at its own pace with little means to rush it. With several ordered sets of dishes on my mind I find it hard to sit down and free my mind to throw. Usually by the time I get done throwing the first piece of the day, its something that no one has ordered. Which makes me laugh. And groan. And shake my head, because I've finally recognized that I have to make room for that little part of me that wants to buck the system. A meaningful nod across a full room to that stubborn individualist attitude of mine. Someday perhaps I'll trade in that meaningful nod for a waltz or tango. Until then I'll keep plugging away!

May we wear "them" out

2010-04-08T09:21:00.000-05:00

A small town has its charms. The fact that I often drive down a wrong way street to get to work is one of them. If you can even call it a street. Perhaps an alley. Most aptly considered a gauntlet of potholes ready to swallow you whole. For whatever reason, I derived a sense of happiness driving down this gauntlet the wrong way.

In the same spirit, I had to smile this morning as I crossed several sets of railroad tracks on a mission for donuts. (By the way, never get in the way of a woman looking for donuts.) This particular railroad crossing has always had a stop sign that no one in town actually stopped at. We collaboratively just knew it was a place to yield. It was the second set of tracks that you stopped for. (I think, or perhaps I'm the only one in town that actually stopped?) As I crossed the tracks, I noticed that the stop signs had been replaced with yield signs. Could it be true that we, in this small town, had changed the course of highway traffic signs? Not by any noticeable grumbling or complaining, picket lines or city council debates, but by simply doing it our own way? Sure it only took several decades, maybe more, but this must be a victory of some sort! So, here's to doing it our own way(within reason)- thinking for ourselves- not always following the rules and being creative! May we wear "them" out- whoever "they" are.

A handmade mug for me. A handmade mug for you.

2010-04-06T17:08:00.000-05:00

Handmade. There's just something about it. Even when I was young the ability to create and accomplish what I put my mind to brought satisfaction. Handmade mud-pies in the driveway, handmade forts created in old creek beds and high in trees, why not handmade pottery as an adult?

When I get up in the morning with eyelids half open -often clumsily hopping on one foot from the toy I stepped on on the way to the kitchen- there's comfort in holding that hot mug of coffee in my hands. At one point I wedged that clay in my hands, I threw the form on the wheel with my own fingertips, and that handle that fits my hand unlike any other, I shaped myself. That mug wasn't made anywhere else and there will never be another just like it. That mug is handmade with "imperfections" that make it perfect for me. I truly hope you can find such comfort with an perfect mug!