Making a Mark

What is it that makes people set aside technology and the many ways available to send messages and write a handwritten letter? What is it that makes a handwritten letter so thrilling to receive? I write things by hand often, and it struck me the other day as I wrote the date across the top of my page why it feels so important to do it. It is tangible proof that I was alive, December 21, 2013. More than being just alive, I was conscious, and exerting effort to live my life. It is the desire to make a mark on the world, to leave traces so that people will remember that I existed once, even when I am long gone. It it the same thing that drove the early people to carve stone figures, to paint the walls of caves. Yes there was a purpose, but I am sure that they also thought about how their children's children would see and use the things they had made and maybe remember them. What other pieces of my existence am I leaving for people to find? I wonder.

I think that with this in mind, receiving something handmade or handwritten, like a letter, is meaningful not only because someone took the time to physically and sincerely craft it for you, however simple it is, but also that someone has also entrusted you with its keeping. This mark that they are leaving of their existence is in your hands.

Going Home

Have I ever told you about the song that I begin to think and feel and sing every time I am getting ready to go home? Sitting on my bed, nearly two hours away from home, seven hours away from my planned time of departure, how appropriate that I would hear it playing as our conversation lulls. My sweet friend, giving me a rest from packing, joined me to take advantage of this pre-break stillness to catch up on everything we have missed of each other in the busyness of the semester, and now we allow the conversation to pause as this song plays quietly.


I've been feeling kind of restless
I've been feeling out of place
I can hear a distant singing
A song that I can't write 
And it echoes of what I'm always trying to say

There's a feeling I can't capture
It's always just a prayer away
I want to know the ending
Things hoped for but not seen
But I guess that's the point of hoping anyway

Of going home, I'll meet you at the table
Going home, I'll meet you in the air
And you are never too young to think about it
Oh, I cannot wait to be home

I'm confined by my senses
To really know what you are like
You are more than I can fathom
And more than I can guess
And more than I can see with you in sight

But I have felt you with my spirit
I have felt you fill this room
And this is just an invitation
Just a sample of the whole
And I cannot wait to be going home

Going home, I'll meet you at the table
Going home, I'll meet you in the air
And you are never too young to think about it
Oh, I cannot wait to be going, to be going home

Face to face, how can it be
Face to face, how can it be
Face to face, how can it be

this is just an invitation
Just a sample of the whole
And I cannot wait to be going home

("Going Home" by Sarah Groves)


I know that the words refer to a different home, I know they are sung to a different listener, but the separation, the longing, the rest, the anticipation is what I feel. I am going home to rest among my family. I am going home to put aside my duties for a time. I am going home to sit around the table that my dad made, I'm going home to linger there with the ones that I have not seen in too long. 

The meaning of the words change as I walk in the door. I came home to sorrow. I came home to tears. I came home to find that the one had left the ninety-nine again. I came home missing his presence by mere hours. Now I sing for the home without sorrow, now I sing to call him home. When one is missing from the table, when a voice is missing from the house, all we can do it wait. Complete and whole is a thing for another time. Now we are to watch and wait.

a favorite mug

It is not right for your favorite mug to be one that you have made. I admit, sometimes I am struck by the way one will come out of the kiln and I'll bring it home to see if it really matches its appearance once put to the test of use. Other times I'll hold onto a cup I have made for the sake of remembering a stage of my growth in clay, or a time that means something, like the mug that I made this summer while I was at Arrowmont and fired in the anagama kiln. But over time, once the tests have been made, once the newness has worn off, I am in the dilemma of having to choose each morning which mug to use. Each one has a name attached to it, a person to think of while I use it. Each is varied in size and form, some better suited to afternoon coffee when my hand is stronger and I am more awake than I am most early mornings. What I need, what I look for in the grey of my kitchen in the morning light, is a mug that will stand strong when I'm not ready to yet. I have one mug that will do that. This mug has nothing flashy to say for itself, its form is a straightforward cylinder, slightly wider at the lip than at the base. But more and more, this is what I search for each morning. Its handle is close and comfortable to hold with two fingers, and the perfect size to slide my fingers through as I allow my hands to cup around the body, drawing warmth from it. I never fail to think about its maker when I choose this mug. Sitting, strong on the counter as I pour my coffee it seems fitting to add my cream and sugar and to stir it with the antique spoon that belonged to my great grandmother. I think that Paige would appreciate the tradition of that. I was given these four spoons so that the morning coffee ritual would mean something more to me and my roommates, bringing back memories of performing the same motions in my own home, alongside my mother. This, I think would also mean something to Paige, with her love of tradition. Now, even more than when I first brought the mug home, I like to be reminded of the one who made it, one who I look up to and respect now more than ever. Today, I think, I want to hold this mug to cheer and pray her on, in a way, as she works towards her next step forward, just as she is good to cheer and encourage me on my own way. The other cups will find use, I am sure. There will come times when it feels right to take one of them down, but for now, in the grey morning light, my hands will search for the feel of my Paige cup.

Woodfire: part one

Rolling in while it is still and dark. Cross legged on a blanket feeding the fire, now burning strong, that was started by one small match last night. This is the beginning of a special kind of miracle, a special kind of wonder. Wisdom visits, with stories and quiet company. He adds his presence to the workers as they see the day in from dark to grey, always feeding the fire.
After dawn the kiln speaks, a quiet roar telling of the transformation that is about to occur. They listen, learning from it and replying with wood. Always more wood. Wood to feed it's hunger, wood to aid its magic.
The workers speak quietly, reading a prayer over their fire, over the new day.

Almighty God our heavenly Father, you declare your glory and 

show forth your handiwork in the heavens and in the earth: Deliver 

us in our various occupations from the service of self alone, that we 

might do the work you give us to do in truth and Beauty and for the
common good; for the sake of hi who come among us as one who serves,
 your Son Jesus  Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and
 the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen
(Book of Common Prayer, Collect for Vocation in Daily Work)

when the week is long

there are some nights when you can't throw
because your hands are too tired to whisper to the clay
be still, child, I will make you beautiful
so you go to bed, because the week was too much and you are spent
then you wake in the morning and are sad at the grey,
but on a second look through the crack of your blinds, separated,
you can see that really it is gold and blue and crisp
and it just hasn't touched your wall yet 
so you get out of bed and hold in your hands the heat of a mug of coffee
which tastes just right today
and you read about life abundant 
before you shoulder the courage it takes to make it through another day
and return to the studio where your unfinished pots wait
along with untouched clay that sits with unmatched patience
until you and your hands find the time to answer its question
what shall I be

I don't look like an artist

I don't look like an artist. But then, what does an artist look like? I always thought you had to have color in your hair, your body a canvas to be decorated, your dress an outlet for creativity. Don't artists decorate their bodies with piercings and tattoos? Don't they walk around as their own greatest art piece? I don't.

I am just a civilian dressed, hair back, muscle ache, tired hands human who can't seem to make it through a day without getting dirty. I'm just a young woman with calloused hands and blue jeans, rinsing off the dust of the ceramics studio before falling into bed, spent, at sunrise. And I will be an old woman with tired back and strong hands pushing through the pain of years of work to make one more piece.

I don't look like an artist. But then, the artists I see are average people in average dress with extraordinary eyes and heart that beat strong for their calling. The artists I know wake up early and go to bed tired. The artists I know look like me.

Artist Narrative

            I come from warmth and welcome. I come from long dinners around a table heavy with food, where conversation carries on for hours. I come from holidays spent with family, rejoicing in being together. I come from living in near community, from the confidence of having the support of close kin to fall against. I come from the security of never having to act a part to please those around me. I come from watching those who know well the art of comfort and hospitality.

            I come from saying goodbye, again. I come from fingers forming the sign, thumb, index and pinky out, waving: I love you. I come from picking up and starting fresh. I come from building family around me; piecing together community. I come from learning there is always room for another. I come from opening my heart once more.

            I come from always building, crafting, making. I come from days taken off from studies to make art. I come from play-dough and oven baked clay figures. I come from working with my sister to make anything we did not have. I come from watching my mother draw and hoping I would someday be as good. I come from imagined worlds and stories so vivid that they seemed tangible.  I come from a lifetime of creativity.

* * *

            I come from always building, crafting, making. My foundation, my beginning is here, though I cannot point to a time or real defining moment. I have never been one to experience things in flashes; my growth usually takes a form more like a sunrise, with a steady and gentle turning from black to grey to light.  All I can see is a consistent thread of creativity running through my life. I remember drawing, always drawing, coloring or painting. I drew because my mother drew. I wanted to do it as well as she did someday. I remember playing “dress up” with my sister, decorating ourselves, spending time crafting the perfect outfit to fit our imaginary games. I remember hours spent in the woods, scavenging materials to build a fort. We helped ourselves to a roll of our Dad’s twine to bind the sticks together into something somewhat structurally sound. These are my memories of those things that have brought me to this place.

            I come from saying goodbye. There is a changing, a growing that happens when you wave goodbye to all you have known. A young girl, excited for the new, I only half felt the sorrow of leaving them behind. My family gathers at every farewell. Those that are left wave until the last sight, hands raised, forming the sign I love you. I look back now at that leaving and feel what I did not know to feel then, when I said goodbye to a security and simplicity that would never be the same. It is a new place now and I have said goodbye once more. I drove away from my family, that place of refuge, once again not fully aware of how much a part of me I was leaving behind. But in this new place I see family too. Pieced together into a whole, they are all around. It is a new home that I have made.

            I come from warmth and welcome. It was my grandma and mother that taught me what these meant. I have watched the ritual, the art of creating a place of welcome. An open house, clean and still, rests after the flurry of preparation. It is peace that greets all who enter, like the hostess herself, arms open to her guests. The table waits, offering an invitation to sit, to partake in a meal, to linger, together as long as possible. This is the welcome I have known. I can see traces of it in the work that I make as an artist. My ceramic work is simple, not cluttered with busyness, but a place for the eye to rest. I take time with even the small details so that the experience of each pot in its entirety is a positive one. I want my work to be approachable, not appearing too delicate or rough to come near, touch, or use, but simple and sincere. I want my work to draw people in to look again, to look closer, to try to know it. Gather at the table, this is my offering, the work that I make. Stay awhile and rest.

           

            

Bliss

Sculpture is hard. Throwing is bliss. But they are both oh so good.

This was my epiphany last week. My hands screamed with pain at their abuse as I walked home to fall into bed at 3 am each night. Cuts marred their surface and my palms were roughened from the work I was doing. Physically battered, stiff and exhausted I came to know sculpture as hard.

That moment when you realize that you have moved beyond theory-yes it is difficult-to a real and actual knowing in your head, your heart and your entire aching body.

From beginning to end-the planning, the construction, the problem solving, presentation, rejection and acceptance-it is all hard. But maybe, I don't know, maybe this is what makes it worth doing. Maybe it is the loss of sleep, the blood and sweat that gives it its value. In the laborious working out of an idea, the object takes on meaning and worth and becomes sculpture. Maybe I'm wrong, but maybe this is truth.

The hard is good, but everyone needs bliss. Exhausted and battered, what is that one thing that you can go to for rest-where you can know it is going to be OK? It is good to place my weary hands on something that moves to mold to the form they intend. It is good to leave the loud, rough sounds of construction behind and find the peace of a wheel gently whirring. Sweet bliss. My soul whispers to my tired body. And all is good.

Resting in the Rock

I wasn't prepared for this. When I look for quiet there is noise. I am bombarded by everything loud and offensive, my head is banging around it seems with the noise of the world I have entered. I know it is not about my comfort, I didn't come here to be comfortable. It is about learning to love, but I am overwhelmed and weary from the effort. I need a place of rest. 

It is in the Rock that I can find my rest. I am ready to weep at the words of comfort that I have found.

Read Psalm 62, you who seek rest, you who seek refuge from the attack. 

"Find rest, O my soul, in God alone;
my hope comes from him.
He alone is my rock and my salvation;
he is my fortress, I will not be shaken.
My salvation and my honor depend on God;
Trust in him at all times, O people;
pour out your hearts to him,
for God is our refuge." (Ps. 62:5-8)

And when I remember to turn my eyes to my Rock for the rest that I need, I find myselfable to say once more, "It is well, it is well with my soul."

Growing

What do you do when your stomach knots up with nerves at the thought of tomorrow?

Tomorrow I drive. Tomorrow I take move out into the world. Tomorrow is the start of my first real step forward--my first "next step" as an artist. Tomorrow is full of unknowns.

I breathe deep. I remind myself that this is exciting. I think about all that I'm going to learn.

But I also think about how young I still feel. I'm still not sure I should be allowed to do this on my own. I'm not sure that I should be counted as a grown up. When did that happen?

I'm scared. But beyond that, I am excited because I know that I'm gonna be OK, and when I make it through this I might just end up being a little stronger, a little bolder, a little more prepared for whatever God has for me next. I'm OK with growing up.

Fire Watchers: thoughts from a woodfire

They wake up at the hour when the world is still asleep. The last stretch of night before the morning greets them with silence as they open doors to the cool air outside. Through stillness a truck rolls, engine and wheels interrupting the morning calm as the headlights break through the dark.

They walk beneath the fading stars to the rough shelter and the sound of quiet voices. The night watch welcomes them from under their blankets, lighted by the dim glow of the fire. This fire is the reason they are here, the reason so many have set aside their work, their lives, to gather together before it. It must be guarded through the night, fed and carefully tended. For, even while it draws people in and warms them, it serves another, greater purpose. Behind the brick, in darkness sit the products of many hours of work, the work of their hands. Shelves, propped up by fire worn, stone stilts, are laden with vessels--object awaiting their transformation. The hands that formed them placed them gently into darkness, and now feed the fire that will make them beautiful. 

As the sky fades to grey, quiet conversation is the theme music to the feeding of the flames. The fire burns brighter now as the watchers push it onward. All this is in preparation for the great dance of later. The time is coming when there will be little rest as the watchers turn from woodpile back to fire in a wild dance, feeding its great hunger. They will sweat from its heat as they fight to bring it to the point of transformation. Through another night they will work, all for the sake of the work of their hands. For, when the fire is done, when the heat has receded and the darkness has returned within, eager hands will remove the door of bricks and hands and eyes will explore the depths of the kiln to look for flashes of beauty left as a surprise by the fire.

   

The fire changes a lot between the first and second nights

made for you

There is something beautiful
about a cup that welcomes 
its maker's hand
with every curve matching
as it is cradled there, safe.
It fits like the interlocked fingers
of a long-wed couple.
Comfortable, it says
I was made for you.

untitled

Rain dripping on my face
turned up, grey-skyward.
Dark skies send cold drops,
emissaries, to the world
of wet shoes, mud grass below.

Each drop caressing my face
whispers, Go back, go home. 
There is no light here.
But I am tired of the glow
yellow and fake
of the light we have created
man made light
to carry us through grey days.

I want to see the truth
though the truth shows only dark today.
The skies weep with the dark,
mixing with the tears on my face.
I didn't know the truth would hurt,
would break a heart that wanted to see.

Tears dripping on my face
turned up, grey-skyward
blur my sight of the world before me.
It is dark all around, but I will stay
and wait for the first glow of light.

He is Risen

He is risen!

No one stirs to hear my Easter greeting. The City sleeps. Outside my window the sky is dark yet, and a fine mist hangs in the air, glowing with the artificial light of streetlamps. Where is the sun? 

I been overwhelmed with questions. Doubts. Decisions. I feel a call upon my life that scares me--well, the part of me that likes to remain settled, comfortable and safe. There is another part of me that is excited at the call and rises up with courage to face the challenge. 

But just as I see only darkness now, I have journeyed to that world and been met only with a mirroring dark. The dark of hopelessness, lostness and blindness. Where is the Son?

"Sometimes I feel very small. And I don't know why I'm here or how I can make a difference"

I wrote that once, when my eyes had been opened to the world I am training to enter. How can I say anything, do anything that might change anything? I am aware, like Moses, that my abilities are limited. I want to protest as he did when he received the call of the Lord, "I am slow of speech and tongue." (Ex. 4:10) and "O Lord, please send someone else to do it." (Ex. 4:13) My creativity is limited. I am not smart or skilled enough to say what needs to be said. 

But I am being called. If I do not answer, I am fighting against the will of my GOD. His words to Moses are a comfort to me. "Who has made man's mouth? Or who makes him dumb or deaf,or seeing or blind? Is it not I, Jehovah? Now then go, and I, even I, will be with your mouth and  teach you what you are to say." (Ex. 4:11-12) This is the promise of the God I serve to another that he called. I can only trust that he is indeed an unchanging God, and that he will work in the same way in me. Will I, like Moses, call him Adonai(Lord-Master), but push back in fear against his will, or will I surrender to my Adonai because he is Jehovah-God?

The call is to go and to do in that world I have seen, in that world that is dark. But I will not be  walking in darkness, without hope, for, on the morning of the third day the tomb was found to be empty. When surrounded by darkness we ask, where is the Son? I can tell you where he is. He died for the darkness and the lost and the hopeless and now he is sitting, alive and victorious at the right hand of the Father. He has shattered the curse of death and his light is only waiting for a sign from the Father to fully shine forth and destroy all darkness. My call is to be a forerunner of this marvelous light, preparing a way, carrying it in small parts to begin the work of darkness-breaking.

What is my hope? What can I say? HE IS RISEN!

He is risen indeed. Alleluia!

Some Mornings

There are some mornings when God picks you up and dances you awake because the sun is shining its gilded warmth into you room for the first time in nearly a week, and outside your window sill a small, fat bluebird doesn't know how to stop making the same music that your very soul is making. This is a morning for face turned to the sun. This is a morning for song. This is a morning for hands in the air, be still my soul, praise the Lord, my Rock, my Savior, my Father-God.

Breathe deeply, for he has given you breath. That is how much he loves you. Feel the cold air about your feet, for he has created you to feel, and praise him, for you are fearfully and wonderfully made. 

Let us worship the Lord!
Worship him with gladness O people of his blessing.
Praise his mighty Name for he is Creator God.
Praise his holy Name for he is Perfect.
Praise his saving Name for he has redeemed the world!
The Lord is our God and he has redeemed us,
pulled us from the depths of heart-darkness
and brought us to the light of his presence.
Let us lift our hands and worship Him, King of Light.
Let us worship the Lord!

As my heart breaks

A poem I found in my things, written last semester.

On the ground in the cold
I sit, praying in the morning light.
My alter lays before me
a meeting place,
a praying place.
My prayers are for my family,
for you, brother.

On my knees by my bed.
My stomach turns,
I weep.
My heart is breaking
for you, brother.

Here today, gone tomorrow
my alter is gone now,
temporary.
My heart is not.
It still bleeds, still beats
still loves.
Loves you, brother.

Words fail, spirit groans,
the Spirit intercedes
the Father calls
to you, brother.

Just Dirt

In the stone cold, dust bathed yard
the grinding, creaking, 
complaining mixer ceases.
Silence.
Then, it is replaced with
Slap! Slap! Slap!
Wet and cold
on cold and hard.
Splat! Smack!
Clay is thrown,
forced, abused.
But oh! how it enjoys it.
Back aches,
muscles strain,
transforming dust to clay.
Just dirt,
but so much more.
Cool, smooth, ancient.
It waits for hands.
Strong hands,
purposed hands
exhert force,
prepare it for use.
Slam! Whack! Whir!
Clay on wheel
Pedal down
Wheel spins, and hands,
strong hands
still hands
shape, guide, form.
At their touch it moves.
Conformed.
Slick, sticky, soft
it takes a shape,
a personality
and a purpose.
Dust to clay,
clay to stone.
Transformed.
This is a new form, but ancient
and endless.

A beautiful vessel

     Morning sun, morning shadow, morning smells wash over me as I sit, my window open just a little to welcome the fresh air. The sunshine is warm on my face, my arms. My hands are cradling my mug of coffee. The coffee is just right, lighter than Dad's, darker than Mom's. This mug has a character-and a name. It is my Megan Thompson mug. Its warm hardness is silk smooth to the touch. It is a gentle, healing presence in my stiff, sore hands, battered and tired from training and practicing to make objects like the one I hold.  They are weak and unskilled, but the mug I hold is a goal to strive for, an end to which I can fix my eyes.

     The WR-12 glaze over porcelain looks like wood right now, with a grain and places where it collected darker to form knots. Over it, with the sunlight highlighting its vivid color, is Georgia Red-like a surprise of blues and greens. Georgia Red runs-on this mug it pools at the foot in a labyrinth of colors. The depth and complexity of the swirling layers of color-blue, brown, black, green-is beyond me. The mystery of clay,of glaze, and a great fire, thousands of degrees hot, has produced this mystery of beauty that I am able to use every day. What a beautiful life, that and object of so much beauty can be used for such a mundane thing. I think that somehow this vessel transforms its duty into something more meaningful, as hands, morning-tired, cradle it in the beginning light of a new day.

 Now in a great house there are not only vessels of gold and silver but also of wood and clay, some for honorable use, some for dishonorable. Therefore, if anyone cleanses himself from what is dishonorable, he will be a vessel for honorable use, set apart as holy, useful to the master of the house, ready for every good work

 2Timothy 2:20-21

Hello Lord

There are some times when you walk through life oblivious to ultimate reality, when subconsciously you live as if this is all there is. There are times when even things you KNOW--like God, Jesus, Salvation--seem so vague, distant, unreal. The enemy has succeeded in numbing you to the powerful truth, leaving you to walk through life as if in a dream. But there are times when, for me at least, when my mind grasps just for a moment how much more there is to life, when I remember fully the things beyond this world. It is so overwhelming to my brain that the full force never lasts long, but it never fails to stir me, and for that I'm thankful. I don't know any way to describe it but that just as I know that I will be driving to church later today, that the ground is firm beneath my feet, and that tomorrow class will be starting again, for just a moment, just as real to me is the thought of living for eternity, the thought of a time when our sole task will be to sing at the top of our voice the Holiness of our God. For a moment it is more than theory and belief, it is absolutely real. But just as God is beyond description, so much greater than our words can describe, the reality is so much greater than my mind can handle and it seems that it boxes the reality up into something more manageable. Oh how I wish that this would not happen, but that reality would always be on my mind. If it were so, I doubt there would ever be times when all I can say are the words of  Psalm 42,

"As the deer pants for streams of water,

so my soul pants for you, O God.

My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.

When can I go and meet with God?"

I would never have to cry out with the Psalmist, "Why have you forgotten me?" Who could ask that with a full realization of the reality of Salvation? But from the place where we sometimes live, that feels like a legitimate question. O Lord, would you reveal reality to us!

"Hello Lord, it's me your child 

I have a few things on my mind 

Right now I'm faced with big decisions 

And I'm wondering if you have a minute, 'cause 

Right now I don't hear so well 

And I was wondering if you could speak up 

I know that you tore the veil 

So I could sit with you in person 

And hear what you're saying but 

Right now, I just can't hear you

I don't doubt your sovereignty 

I doubt my own ability to 

Hear what you're saying 

And to do the right thing 

And I desperately want to do the right thing 

But right now I don't hear so well 

And I was wondering if you could speak up 

I know that you tore the veil 

So I could sit with you in person 

And hear what you're saying but 

Right now, I just can't hear you. 

And somewhere in the back of my mind 

I think you are telling me to wait 

And though patience has never been mine 

Lord, I will wait to hear from you 

Oh Lord, I'm waiting on you 

Right now I don't hear so well 

And I was wondering if you could speak up 

I know that you tore the veil 

So I could sit with you in person 

And hear what you're saying but 

Right now, I think you're whispering"

                                                                                          Hello Lord-Sara Groves