Shaping earth into life

Another chapter of my 'Clay Chronicles'...

As I wedge the clay between my hands I slip back in time to my grandmother’s kitchen. 20. 30. 40 years ago. Lino floor and pastel benches. The whole process of making a clay piece reminiscent of baking with her.

My heart skips a beat. I feel her presence besides me. Her hand reaching for mine as she shows me how to knead the dough. Her movements polished, mine a little rough. Years of kneading practice softening her hold.

As I flatten the clay under the slab machine, I can sense her long rolling pin in my small hands as I create the base for our cookies. My texture improving with each batch I bake.

As I cut around a plaster mould to shape my plate, I remember the star shapes, the crescent moons, the round circles, the happy faces of the many biscuit cutters she offered me.

As I walk outside and place my piece on the verandah to harden a little under the morning sun, I recall walking up to her hot oven, raising the door and placing a tray full of cookies within its belly.

Waiting for my piece to be ready, I feel the warmth of the spring day on my face and I ponder why the white flour and sugar never caused a tummy ache then. Was it the love that went in alongside the ingredients?

I listen to the laughter and chatter from the other women in my class and I wonder why we stopped doing this. What did we do to ourselves? Replacing cutting tools and paintbrushes with keyboards and computers. Plopping us in desks in a 90 degree position all day. Stiff spines. Head down. Our innate eros energy compressed in a linear closed position. I contemplate the way shaping earth into life was pushed into secondary importance, with deal negotiations and business plans taking precedence.

Lifting the mould from the sun and returning to the room, I flip her over on a board, like the way I expertly angled the baking dish to get the finished cake out.

I wipe a tear from my eye, leaving a smidgen of clay on my cheek. I imagine my grandmother rubbing it away. Her plump fingers cool on my skin.

I miss her. I miss that time. I miss what she had to teach me, just through her beingness, her nature, her scent.

I wish I could sit next to her again, take in her love, drink in my ancestry wisdom, ask her questions, get her expert tips. Offer her a scone or a slice of cake on one of my new handmade plates. Sip tea out of my mugs and place flowers from her garden in my coiled vase.

Instead, I lift my eyes to the sky, smile up at her, in memory, in desire, in gratitude. And hope in some way, in some small manner she is looking down on me and smiling too ❤️