Twenty Pounds. That’s what I have to work with for seven weeks. Twenty pounds of moist gray clay, and it seems impossible to conquer. I reach for the wire already covered in dried, flakey clay and cut off a thin layer, too timid to take any more. I slowly begin to wedge the clay into a Hershey Kiss. Once I finish I slam it onto the wheel with a large “bang!” Startled eyes look my way. Now I can begin. Who are you?

This is the question that haunts me on a daily basis.

Every Wednesday I attend pottery class from 2:30 to 4:30. I spend two hours every Wednesday pulling, pushing, measuring and molding clay. Every decision I make influences my clay’s journey. The water splatters on the wheel as I wet my hands, mentally preparing myself to grip the clay that seems to be spinning a mile a minute. One wrong move and I’ll have to start over. It’s like cradling a newborn baby constantly holding my breath, treasuring the lump of clay like it’s gold. Telling it my hopes and desires, praying that it will turn pointed lips into wide “O’s” praying that it won’t rip, and praying that no matter what I do it’ll come out okay. I stare at the clay as it spins in a hypnotic fashion, over and over again. Suddenly I find myself dreaming of being that clay. The water loosening the friction between me and my creator, becoming smoother as all the sludge is being wiped off of me, becoming refined and poised.

I want to be molded into a tall vase, perfectly centered in the middle of the wheel, unable to crack, unable to be looked down upon, and unable to be shattered. I want to be the best me.

I see a flowery meadow straight out of a Studio Ghibli film, the air is crisp and untainted. The meadow is so quiet yet so alive as bees are bumbling, frogs are hopping, and birds are chirping the true beauty of nature unrefined, untamed, and unnamed. I can barely contain myself.

I run into this magical meadow leaving all my stress and worries behind. As I wander through the meadow I see flowers of all colors, shapes and sizes. The soil is rich and soft. I come across dancing flies and I can’t help it, I join in. I kick my shoes off and jump into a twirl, and I twirl, I twirl for hours, the winding hitting from every angle. I am filled with joy as I wish I could stay here forever in a dream-like place that has not yet been tamed, where sheeps run wild and there are horses in the distance. A place I can stay all day without a care, a place where I can truly feel alive. I roll down the hills of this flowery meadow and can’t help but laugh because what a joy it would be to visit a place like this. A place like this is what I long for most, a place where I can ignore the troubling cold world, a place where I can get caught up in the moment and twirl in the wind for days.