Journey Out of Pink

Joining the sides of the mug with slip A few weeks ago, I decided to sign up for a pottery class. I’d wanted to learn pottery for a long time and thought finally, now that I was starting to feel normal again, it would be the perfect time to begin. I also thought it might help with my lymphedema. The first class was in wheel throwing. I enjoyed that very much and made several items. The next class was in hand building. Hand building is a pottery-making technique that involves creating forms without the use of a pottery wheel. It would be more difficult. As I stood in front of the classroom counter, a large lump of brown clay lay before me. My job, the instructor said, was to wedge the clay. Wedging the clay is a process to rid the clay of air bubbles which could cause problems in firing. I listened as she explained the process and then watched as she showed me how to manipulate the clay. She worked for a few minutes and then turned the clay over to me. I picked up the brown lump and

Centering the clay at the wheel Today was my first pottery class. One of our regional artists, Tammy Troyer, was giving lessons so I jumped at the chance to learn. I'd met Tammy at a local arts and crafts fair last month and had the pleasure of watching her at the wheel. When she said she'd be offering classes soon, I jumped at the opportunity to learn. This is something I've always wanted to do and since I've had it on my bucket list for some time, I figured why wait any longer. I met Tammy at our local Arts Center early this morning. She asked if I was sure I didn't mind getting dirty and I assured her I didn't. She said she was glad and she had some aprons hanging on the hook in the corner. "Why don't you get one while I change into my work clothes." I did as instructed and picked out a nice, heavy denim apron. I figured that would be the best choice for keeping clay off of my clothes. After Tammy had changed, she pulled out a lar

I almost missed her. There among the shadows, she sat quietly waiting. Her voice was soft as she spoke the words, "Help me, lady?" I almost dismissed her, thinking she was speaking to someone else, but she was speaking directly to me. That's when I realized she was homeless. One step further and I stopped dead in my tracks. I turned to my husband and whispered, "Give me your wallet." He knows me well enough by now not to argue with me. Obediently, he fished in his pants and pulled out his wallet. Handing it over to me, I opened it and grabbed a twenty. I told him I'd be back in a few minutes and asked if he could wait there. He nodded. I backtracked to the seated lady and squatted down until we were at eye level with one another. Gently I spoke. "What's your name?" I said. She replied, "Regina." I could only see one eye because the other was hidden by her long, unkempt hair, but that one eye held such pain. I sensed she'd had