I lean over the oily glaze bucket and dip my lopsided mug down into the thick liquid. Today is my last pottery class. I bring the mug back up for air and set it down on the table to dry. A lilac purple. My mom will love this, I think to myself.
In a lot of ways, I feel like a kid again. Learning something new. Being genuinely bad at it. Following the teacher’s instructions and releasing expectations. I’ve never really been good at that, releasing expectations. In fact, I love expectations. They’re like rules. Something you know you can follow and depend on. Something to strive for. The path to doing things well. And I like doing things well.
But since graduating college (it’s been almost two years now), I’ve quickly realized two things:
One. This is no longer how life works. At least, not if you want to enjoy it. There are no more rules to follow, grades to strive for, people to impress or professional milestones to reach. We get to decide what’s important to us, and that’s equally as exciting as it is terrifying.
Two. Not everything has to be something. We’re allowed to start a new hobby without making it our life’s purpose or career. We’re allowed to try new things without sharing them online. We’re allowed to create and work and play without any expectations or goals or people to impress. We’re allowed to do things and never get better, but still enjoy them.
I think this over and over again until I start to believe it.
Over the next hour, I finish glazing all of my pieces. I line them up to observe their imperfections and there are many. But for the first time in a long time, this actually feels okay (and oddly beautiful). I look over at the older man sitting next to me. He’s a few steps behind, but doesn’t seem to mind. Spry and just shy of 72, he tells us about a daughter who loves to travel, a job that’s flexible, and a wife who keeps him in check. His pieces sit lopsided and cracked. I like him. He leans over and whispers to me, this is my therapy. I smile and agree.
We wipe down tables, retire our aprons, and say our goodbyes. Before leaving, the teacher reminds us that she’s always happiest when she’s making things she loves. Not to sell pieces, gain praise, or fit into trends, but to create things that she wants to create (even if they’re less than perfect).
Gentle reminders. Gentle reminders.
I drive home in silence and feel a deep sense of accomplishment and peace wash over me.
Wishing you less time on your screen,
-Emily