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