“It is not pots we are making but ourselves.” — M.C. Richards, Centering
a lump of clay bumps roughly
between my palms
I bathe it with water
brace my arms on my knees
tighten the pressure of my hands
massage the wet lumpy clay
up and down
as it rotates
until it softens
centers
revolves seamlessly
within my stillness
invites me to open its center
breathe life into it
I listen through touch
for boundaries and possibilities
within this vessel
this potter
these hands
with a passion
always alive
always new
I am a child at play
a monk in prayer
a woman at peace