The ball of clay sits, waiting.
It wants to be shaped into something unexpected.
It pleads.
It anticipates.
It hopes.

It is powerless to act on its own behalf.
It needs my help.

I shape the clay.
I push, pull, prod, play.
I center on the work and leave the world alone for a while.

The sunlight streaming in through the studio skylight warms and strengthens.
I return to the world.
Somehow I now have a second ball of clay.
When did that happen?
I don’t remember.
Am I displeased?
No.

I have shaped the first clay into a form that pleases me.
I begin on the second clay.
As I knead it into shape, I glance again at the first clay.
It is deforming, changing.
It is no longer what I wanted it to be.
What I expected it to be.
The clay is not displeased.
Nor am I.

I can’t bring myself to fire the clay.
I get up and turn off the kiln.

I return to the work, shaping clay.