2 posts tagged “school”

First impressions are tough on those who have a thick skin covering a tender heart. The immediate assumption is that those types are a little mean, or a bit unapproachable because they are more inclined to speak out when there's something going wrong, rather than to smile and make small talk about any old thing. I can relate.

The owner of the studio where I am learning wheel throwing is one of those types. I sensed that on my very first day of class. My instructor mentioned her by name as she walked through glass paned french doors. A reverence floated over the room and everyone seemed to sit a little higher on their stools, offering her a friendly wave or cautious good morning. She brushed by us with her greetings and disappeared into her office.

I knew at that moment I was really going to like her. She reminded me of the nuns I grew up with in parochial school. No frills, no fluff and no great adornments. A wealth of knowledge behind a restrained visage. I felt right at home.

There were whispers about things you didn't do when "K" was about. Clean up after yourself, I was warned. Never forget to turn off your wheel when you're done, I was advised. Funny that all the things they were warning me not to forget, were also posted clearly on the walls and on the memo board. I wondered if their need to whisper reminders indicated that I was learning with a crew of people who didn't care much for rules. I put that aside and focused on class.

"K" would greet me independently only if I was standing in the way of something she needed access to. I've learned over the years, not to push myself on stern sorts. I try to remember how it feels to me when someone just bounds into my space uninvited. I try to remember the times that unexpected intrusions have left others with a not so fond impression of me. I know not to take such disdain personally. Still, I watched her each time I was in the studio. Managing her affairs, advising a student over their shoulder as she passed. I wanted to scale that wall she had carefully built so I could get to the learning on the other side. I decided to wait for the opportunity to come to me, instead of trying to craft it awkwardly. I'm so glad I did.

This past Sunday, we were given a lesson in the art of glazing by "K." The first lesson she's taught to our class. More a science then I originally thought, understanding oxides and firing temperatures and the correct ways to achieve brilliant or muted colors. I am the only beginner in the class, so this refresher lesson was my first and I tried my best to shield the fact that I was hopelessly overwhelmed. "K" honed in on that attempt immediately. For each technique she demonstrated, she would ask for an assistant. Guess who that assistant was? She asked me for my name again, and I knew this time, she would remember it.

"K" made a point in this class of telling us all that she's not the "Queen B" she seems. Well, in some respects yes. She's strong willed and likes her studio run a very specific way. It's her studio and that's her right. But she also expressed the desire to know what we were thinking, and encouraged us to reach out to her. I heard murmurs of hurt feelings towards the back of the room, remembrances of chastisements and quiet admonishments that left people with sore feelings. I chuckled to myself. The things that should hurt my feelings, rarely do. I prefer to extract my hurts from far stranger events then moments of correction or commitments I've failed to keep. I'm hungry for the right way to do something, if there is such a thing. Doesn't mean I'll always follow it, but I always want to know.

While cleaning up from a demonstration she apologized if her manner was stern. Along with her disposition she has a wicked sense of humor, so I wasn't sure if the apology was offered in jest. I told her of my catholic school upbringing, and I saw the light bulb go off behind her eyes.

"I knew there was something. Are you still Catholic?"

I replied that I never was, but that some of my fondest memories were of tough, snarky nuns with hearts of gold that told you exactly what was on their minds and expected you to be sturdy enough to take it. There was something warm and familiar in that for both of us. She smiled, the warmest smile and in that mere two seconds of grin, I knew the ice was officially broken. After the formal lesson was over, she spent some one on one time with me, teaching me the finer points as I gingerly went about my first glazing projects. She mentioned that she knew she wouldn't have to worry about me in the studio, that I was conscientious. She reviewed the pieces I've thrown thus far and complimented my progress is such a short period of time. But the two comments that left me floating on air came towards the end of class.

"Are you signing up for the next session?"

I finished clearing away my tools and folded my apron. I gave her an emphatic yes and told her how much I felt at home in that place.

"I'm happy to hear that. You're soaking this stuff up like a sponge, I'm impressed. I was watching you select your glazes and the color combinations you chose. You are a natural potter. Natural potters always gravitate towards the earth tones, the browns, the greens. They are the ones this stuff just comes naturally to, they have a real respect for this craft. Don't hesitate to come get me, if you have any questions, alright?"

Natural potter? I have no idea why that coming from her felt like God just kissed me on the forehead. But it did.  Perhaps I am drawn to that sort of validation like a moth to flame, but she'll never know what that meant to me. When I left that Sunday afternoon, and peeked into her office to say goodbye, she gave me a smile, wished me a good week and addressed me by my name.

Ice, broken.

My neighbor and voxalicious friend IslandGirl, has suggested a post for me. Is she psychic? Did she know I've been fighting blogger's block for the past few weeks? Whatever the reason...IslandGirl, this one is for you.

Here are three books that changed my life:

Ask and It Is Given.
Jerry & Esther Hicks

As you might know from some earlier posts, this book sort of flung itself at me back in March. It gave me a fresh perspective about the same old shit. That just does not happen every day.  The basic law of attraction. Explained in such a simple, spiritual way...that I nearly felt like an idiot. You get what you expect. If you expect success, if you expect failure. Whatever you believe will happen, typically does. You manifest your destiny, each time you speak a true desire (or a fear). While I think there are tangible limits to this notion and it's been made popular and commercially lucrative with The Secret, I believe in this simple universal law. It was the right book, at the right time, to lend weight to something I already felt, but couldn't assign any spiritual insight to. I've been increasingly confident, aware and mindful of my thoughts ever since. Brings newfound meaning to that old adage, "be careful what you wish for."

Roll of Thunder Hear My Cry
Mildred D. Taylor

Sister Kathy...you'll never know what you did to me, that day you began reading this to our 5th grade class. I always thought there was something odd about being read to at the age...but Sister Kathy always had a way of making the unusual...meaningful. She took the plot, the story of a African-American family in the deep South in the thirties, and made it come alive. To this day, I swear if I ever met Cassie Logan, she would have Sister Kathy's voice. Mildred D. Taylor wove an amazing story, and left me starving for more. But the book changed my life, because until then I never understood that writing in my diary was writing. I didn't get that the short stories I created out of boredom during long house-bound summers were something other than an odd hobby. I had always been a "reader." Mildred D. Taylor, Sister Kathy, Cassie Logan, and that amazing story gave me the desire to become a "writer."

 
The Souls of Black Folk
W.E.B Du Bois

My Dad gave it to me as a Christmas present when I was 13. I remember unwrapping it, and pretending to be excited about it. I did love books, but this one, at first pass, seemed to have the look of a history textbook. It felt like an assignment. I read his inscription on the inside (a script that mine now almost completely resembles)...and I put the book away, promising to read it, "one day."

One day came about six years later, during a cold, rough winter when the transit system between home and school almost always promised a commute that was at least an hour. I opened that book, and was mesmerized. I recall especially the poem that prefaces chapter ten:

I didn't understand it's greater purpose at 13. I did at nineteen...and more and more every day. Thank you, Dad.

So there you have it. The three books that changed my life.  IslandGirl, I owe you one. :))