I fell in love with pottery before I spoke English or knew how to wash dishes. Something about making stuff out of mud spoke to my hands, and I dreamed of one day being able to make beautiful things, useful things, things that my friends would want to have in their homes. I had several starts, including the Christmas Day when the man I was dating surprised me with the loan of an enormous, industrial pottery wheel. Which he installed in the middle of my kitchen, breaking at least three big rules that I would later learn in Art Health & Safety class. There it was, next to the stove. Inviting, intimidating - and huge. The man was a really talented potter. In fact, he was talented in almost everything: painter, singer, musician, electrician, carpenter, builder, designer, movie maker, and more. Somehow he was not so talented at communication, gratitude, interest in other people, and a few other little things that mattered to me. But he had long hair, green eyes and could make giant and lusciously colored spaghetti bowls. I had much to learn, much more than how to throw a good pot. Anyhoo. He brought in The Beast, a lump of clay, and a few sponges. I was thrilled and briefly considered cutting my hair like Demi Moore in case he was envisioning middle-of-the-night sexy sessions at the wheel, slippery mud and all. Instead, he gave me one 20-minute lesson and told me to have fun. I didn’t have much fun. Wheel throwing isn’t easy and I despaired at my lack of getting along with the clay. When I wanted to forget the wheel and start pinching and coiling and playing, I could feel his disappointment from across the room and from above his keyboard. We couldn’t have that. So I tried and failed, and despaired, and eventually, he took the wheel away. Eventually also, I took my heart away and waited a few years to play with mud again. But I eventually did, never getting close to the scary wheel. I played and I built, and I carved and I smooshed, and eventually, my friends told me that they liked having my quirky small pieces in their homes. I dreamed of one day creating a pottery studio in my house, complete with a couple of tables, maybe (maybe) even a wheel, and for sure, a kiln. Time passed. I moved to Mexico. The pottery studio dream started to stir a little and one day, as I was sitting by the banana trees on my patio, I decided to go for it and make it happen. I went into research mode, and within a few days, I made my way to a company in Mexico City that had a good reputation for building strong and reliable kilns. My “reasoning” was that if I was left alone to study, practice, and practice again, I would eventually get good at it. My other “reasoning” was that I deserved this kiln. What I based this on, I am not sure. Certainly not on my years of experience nor my inborn talent as a potter. I chose to not overthink it. I talked with the man who owned the company who also, of course, seemed to think this was a muy buena idea, and I ordered the kiln. It was not cheap and I was well aware that it would take me selling many pinch pots to break even, if I ever did. I like being smart with my money and I knew this was a stretch. But the pull was strong and I did not resist it. A couple of months later, after receiving weekly photos of The Kiln being built, I was told that it was on its way to me. I could have levitated with joy. The promise, the completion … the adventure! Had I ever fired a kiln? Never. I had not even really paid attention when my stuff got fired at local studios in the States. But it didn’t matter you see, because I have done many things this way: I learn later. I learned to bake AFTER opening a bakery, I learned to ride a quad once I was sitting on it for the first time, and I definitely - like many of us - did not learn how to take care of a baby human until I was holding my own. I could do this. Meanwhile, I was aware that I had work to do on the “how the heck am I going to power this thing?” front. My house runs on solar, and I knew for sure that the system would not feed the power-hungry kiln. I asked around, I took notes, I used many of the tools I had learned while building my home to open doors, get answers, and more. Eventually, I was told that there was a way. Down here, there is pretty much always a way. My neighbor assured me that we could run a cable from his house to mine, effectively letting me access the grid not just for The Kiln, but also my air conditioning. I would just pay for the installation and then for his electric bill. This was highly exciting. More than a handful of pesos later, we were ready. I ordered some fun glazes, made a few adjustments to my small studio, and waited for the truck to arrive. When it did, The Kiln was beautiful and I could hardly believe my luck. The two guys who brought it took one look at my house (they had already driven through three river beds to get to me) and decided that their job ended with driving the thing to my door, not bringing it inside my yard, let alone into my house. They explained that it was crazy heavy and that I needed to find someone else to bring it in. Then they started scrolling on their phone, waiting for me to make a move. It was almost dark. We had a problem. Another good handful of pesos later, they brought in The Kiln, installed it where it would live happily ever after, and left. I went to bed high on life and waited for the sun to come up in the morning so I could connect it. I never did. I am not going to get into the details because they still pinch at me a little but I will say that as things are and will be for probably another few years, I am not able to provide The Kiln with enough power. Trust me when I said I tried. This was rough. Many voices in my head were talking at me. I did a lot of writing trying to answer them or to at least be part of the conversation. I alternated between “when the time is right I will know it,” and “WTF is this about??” The-Kiln-I-had-so-badly-wanted was right here in front of me. I talked to it every day, in the beginning. Told it that one day, he and I would play. Little by little I started storing a few things inside its big beautiful brand new belly. I sometimes talked about selling it, and posted a few for sale ads online, but I never followed through. And then, my overflow of creativity, the one I had built up for pinch pots and sweet little medallions, burst out. There was no holding it back and just like that, I started painting unstoppably. I started painting in a way I never had before and even I was in awe of what was happening on the canvas. The Kiln looked on. Maybe it smiled. Six months later, I presented my work publically for a more beautiful exhibit than I had ever imagined, then I did another show in the US, and now I am working on two upcoming ones. All within a year and all featuring a style of art that was fully new to me. It wasn’t lost on me that had I been able to fire the kiln, it is very likely that I would now be the proud owner of 1,000 pinch pots and that they would not have near the effect that my paintings continue to have. I saw that. I see that. I could almost make peace with it, stop resisting. I got used to sharing the space with The Sleeping Kiln, not asking or hoping for more. “The day will come,” was my new phrase. Even though that day could be three years away. But still, I knew that The Kiln was meant to soar, to burn, to create. Not to sit in front of my painting table month after month, hosting a chunk of clay and a few tools. I know how life energy works, and I know that it needs to flow. The Kiln had been sitting near me for a year and a half. So last week, I said yes to a woman who saw one of my half-hearted ads from a while back and I said yes to the money she handed me and I said goodbye to The Kiln, not without making an agreement with its new owner that I could use it to fire my stuff when the time came. Then I walked back towards my studio, and took a big breath ready to face the massive empty spot, feeling bittersweet and a bit confused. I had lost some money in the process. As I said, I do not like to make foolish money moves. Had this been a foolish money move? And if so, WHY? I decided to trust that the WHY would come eventually. And then, something happened. As I moved a big plant to where The Kiln had lived, I noticed a spot on the wall, above the couch. An empty spot. And I knew just what I wanted to put there. I went to get my drill and I made a hole in the concrete wall, the way I have been taught to do. There, I anchored a screw and gently lifted a big and bright blue painting onto it. I had bought it in a thrift storefor 20 pesos, about $1.50, planning to paint over it. I am guessing someone did not like it and had dropped it off. But me, I fell in love with it. Now it lives and shines in my studio. Next was another frame, then another. Then a few Hearts, then a bit of furniture re-arranging. I kept at it for over 4 hours, energized, lifted, in FLOW. Move by move, my home started to feel more and more alive and I knew, I knew exactly what was happening. I had said yes, a big yes, to letting go of something which was neither Actively Used nor Deeply Cherished. My own mantra, the one I have been teaching for over twenty years; there it was, singing with me, rejoicing with me. And possibly wondering what had taken me so long. Which, I think was … fear. Fear of having made a mistake, of being wishy-washy, fear of “never being able to get another kiln,” and fear of regret. Fear, fear, fear. My house and my studio feel so fresh, right now, so … renewed. The woman who bought the kiln told me how happy she was, and reminded me to come use it, she too is feeling the excitement of her new chapter. FLOW. LIFE. LIFE FLOW. All of it. Even though I teach this stuff, even though I know the power of letting go, this one took me by surprise. Shocked me, even. The energy burst… wow. So of course today, I invite you to look around your home, and your life and ask yourself what is not Actively Used or Deeply Cherished - and to consider parting with it. It’s not always easy, but it’s one of the best life-infusions I know. 💛 To read and share on Substack, click here: https://lauralavigne.substack.com/p/goodness-did-i-want-this-pottery PS: For those of you who are excited to accompany me on my “Once Upon a Bakery” spoken memoir journey, be sure to upgrade your Substack subscription. We are taking off on Friday! The Easel and The Flow
May 29, 2024 When Lila, TIji, and I got on a plane for the US, two summers ago, I had two goals: One was to spend three months deeply enjoying my family and my friends, as well as my beloved island cottage. The second was to sell the cottage. I had a whole summer to accomplish this and while these two goals possibly seemed mutually exclusive, I have learned better than to agree with the way things look on paper. I wanted both of these things very much and I was trusting that they could co-exist. It turned out, they would. Beautifully and with Ease. Which does not mean without work or help. One of the “work” parts, was to hold several consecutive garage sales to bring my belongings and those of my kids to the smallest amount possible. I was pretty set on not renting a storage unit so everything I owned would have to either be gifted, sold, or cross the border. Knowing that my house in Mexico had no closet or storage space made me quite focused and committed to the mantra I have taught for decades: “Actively Used OR Deeply Cherished.” The first garage sale was intense. I decided to start with what would hurt the most. I wanted to rip up the band-aid and get going. Everything else would be easier. This meant carrying my easel to the sidewalk. And leaving it there, all open to the whole world for someone who wasn’t me to take it away. My Easel, my friend. Both Actively Used AND Cherished. But heavy. It didn’t take long. A nice woman approached us, asked how much it was. I am pretty sure I let my son answer her and then I watched her carry it away. Tightness in my chest, I reminded myself that it was the right thing to do. No storage unit. Just a few pieces of wood hinged together. Don’t love things that can’t love you back, Laura. Let it go. For some reason, as I repeated all these good words to myself I reached into the pocket of my overalls. I hadn’t worn them for a couple of years and I was surprised to find a folded piece of paper in there. Also, a little yellow heart that I didn’t remember having met before. I tucked the heart back into my pocket and unfolded the paper. The handwriting punched me in the gut. My mom’s handwriting, unmistakable. The same curves that I had read since I was old enough to read, the same ones that wrote notes excusing me from gym class or later on were stretched on letters from “America” to France telling me that she missed me and would I please come visit. My mom’s handwriting, the one that never changed, just as her voice had never changed. Now in the shape of a short grocery list scribbled on one of these cute pieces of paper she liked. This list, I did remember. An hour or so after she had died I had picked it up from her desk drawer and tucked it into my backpack. Maybe I already knew that I wouldn't get many more earthly things to remember her by. How it ended up in my overalls, I don’t know. But I did know right away that the timing, of course, was perfect. A sweet infusion of impermanence, a reminder of yes… letting go. I think she had done a lot of this, eventually the biggest one, and maybe she had come by for a second, the perfect second, to support me. We had a couple more garage sales in the next few weeks and in the end, we did rent a small storage unit. We still have it and I’m still navigating my opinion about it. It’s ok. As the leaves began to turn red, Lila, Tiji, and I made our way back to Mexico and soon after, we moved into our house. Eventually, Casa Sama was finished and eventually, I started to paint again. I thought about My Easel. I could have brought it. I could have stored it. I didn’t and that was that. Then one day I received an email. I wish I had saved it because now I can only paraphrase it and this always feels weird to me. It was from the lady who had bought My Easel at that first garage sale. She had been reading some of my recent posts and saw that I was painting down here. She wanted to tell me how good it had been for her to have The Easel. How it had kickstarted her art again. She too was painting! She sounded inspired and had generously wanted me to know. Her words immediately felt important to me. It made sense, it fit perfectly with my understanding of Life and of the world when I’m not caught up in the smallness of fear. I was grateful for her having taken the time to tell me. I was grateful that what was now Her Easel was not sitting in a storage unit, away from where it could do its magic. I was grateful that Life was flowing as it always does when we don't get in its way. I kept on painting, developing a whole new style, one The Easel had never seen. In March, I flew back to the States to attend the gathering and unveiling of a collaborative show. WOA. A series of portraits celebrating twelve extraordinary women from the island. The Women of Anacortes. It was a very special evening. At the end of the evening, as people lingered enjoying talking with each other and also with me, a woman approached me and kindly reminded me that she was the one who had bought Our Easel and who had sent me the email. She had taken the time to come to my show and she had taken the time to wait to say hello. There, surrounded by this art, these portraits - which I didn’t even know I could create when I sold The Easel - it was touching and reaffirming and also very sweet to be reminded once more of how The Flow works, of how by letting go we bless others and we bless ourselves. How we open up to more than we knew we were ready for or capable of. Today I invite you to trust, and to remember that while things can’t love us back, they can be excellent partners in growing our lives, whether by holding on to them or by letting them go to where they are needed next. In my bathroom, I now have a little yellow heart. Someone once asked me if there was one of my former loves with whom I wished I was still sharing my life. I am pretty sure he asked more clearly, but this is the best I can do in my late afternoon sweaty state. Anyhoo, you get the idea: did I regret the proverbial One Who Got Away? I thought for a short while, did a little inventory in my head, Rolodex style, and gave him a clear no. Nope, no regret at all. Even when the end had hurt, I held no regret. Edith Piaf would approve. Today, inspired by a message that showed up in my inbox, I am revisiting my answer. Yes, one. There is one. And that one, The One That Got Away, I had very much made sure he did. It was 1986, and I was in a relationship I had no business being in. Nothing terrible-terrible, just definitely not a match. My best friend at the time had made it clear that she felt I had no business being in that relationship and instead of insisting I leave or telling me why I should she had simply, one afternoon, said to me: “The day you are ready to leave, just call me. No matter what I am doing, I will come over and get you out.” She must have sensed in me something that I am still grappling with: I don’t leave easily. Yet, that day came. Quietly, one summer morning, two lines in the middle of the newspaper that had been thrown at our front door did it. They said, “How can I find you if you are still with him?” I don’t remember the context; it seems a little odd in retrospect, but hey, angels come in all kinds of outfits, and this one arrived wrapped in newsprint. This relationship had been stripped of its life force for a very long time if it had ever had any. There was nothing left to harvest, nothing left to plant. Just the urgent need to walk away before one of us turned to dust. Still in my PJs, alone in the Seattle apartment that this boy and I shared, I picked up the phone and told my friend, “I am ready.” She responded: “Unlock the door, sit on the couch, and don’t move. I am on my way.” I later learned that she was in the middle of a prestigious fashion shoot and had handed the camera to her assistant long enough to get in her pickup truck and make her way to me. I was paralyzed. She walked in and asked me to point. I pointed. My clothes, my paints, my toothbrush. When she walked towards a big picture frame above the couch, I shook my head. I did not want him to come home to a sad apartment. She made a few trips to her truck and then took me by the hand. She moved me into her huge walk-in closet, up on another hill across the city, where she lived with her husband. She said I could stay there as long as I wanted. And then she suggested I go on a date with her ex-boyfriend. “He’s great,” she said. “I think you’ll really like him.” This seemed fast. Had she been planning this all along, I wondered? The ex-boyfriend part? Did she know something I didn’t? Just a few years my senior she used to love reminding me that “When you turn twenty-seven years old, Laura, you will understand things better.” Well, I did go on a date with her ex-boyfriend. We’ll call him John. And it turned out she was right, he was great. Scary great, in fact. A bit older than me (and even a tiny bit older than my friend), he was wicked smart - which wasn’t the first, nor the second thing one noticed about the boy I had left. He was funny. The smart-funny kind of funny. He knew stuff I didn’t and I loved that. He was adventurous, the opposite of passive, inventing fun left and right. He gave me a copy of the book Siddartha and even though I kept it for years, it would be a decade before I understood it. He had the sweetest cutest dog and in the big old house he shared with some hippy friends, he introduced me to cardamom. Cardamom always reminds me of him and it’s still my favorite spice. I really, really, really liked him. A lot. He also seemed to have a lot of women friends, and I wasn’t sure what to think of that. But he made it very clear that he liked me. A lot. I could see that what he liked was the true me, too. He saw beyond the cute French-bubbly me. He saw me and as a little bit of time passed, he said that he loved me. I believed him. I felt it. It was so very easy and so very good, and I didn’t know what to do with that. You see, romantic relationships are not where I excel. I know many of the principles, and I have since studied and even taught the principles. I have successfully shared what I know with other couples. It just doesn’t help much when it comes to me. When the leaves turned red, in the tiny studio I had moved into on yet another Seattle hill, we carved the pumpkins he brought over. He helped me paint the walls mauve, we shared my Murphy bed and there too, it was so easy and so very good. This scared me. Somehow, I sensed that if I got too close, if I said YES to the question he may not even have known he was asking me, but which I could see in his eyes, I would never leave. And I wanted to leave. I wanted to move to Hawaii, I wanted to be free, I wanted to feel life without someone attached to mine. I did not know then, and maybe I still don’t, that one can feel free even when tied at the heart and at the hearth with someone intelligent, kind, self-confident, and funny. I thought maybe I would learn later. I was only 22, I had so much time. Surely I would learn later. I did not know how rare this was. When Christmas came, John flew down to Florida and met my family. My grandmother wanted him for herself, and I wouldn’t have put it past her to try. New Year’s that year was special. He gifted me the softest, most beautiful leather jacket. But I was leaving. I had to. I was flying to Hawaii for an undetermined time and he was generous enough to bless my adventure. And well, that was that. Upon arrival, Hawaii had me drunk with freedom, with its smells, its colors, and its aloha. Our phone calls got further and further apart. For Valentine’s Day, he got me a gift certificate from a nice local restaurant. I think if I had asked him to join me, he would have. I didn’t. A few months later I ran straight into the father of my children and because our three children needed to be born, the pull was strong. I said yes to that road. It’s likely that I chipped John’s heart, if not broke it a little. My girlfriend didn’t talk to me for fifteen years. Once in a while, John and I find each other in this big world. Never in person. An email. A message. A couple of phone conversations. He says: “You catch me every so often, my darling!” Like me, John has had a big life, like me he has loved much and hurt also, played, worked, lived. Like me, he lives out of the US. Like me, I think he is happy. Maybe, like me, sometimes, he thinks of me as The One Who Got Away. |
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I write because this is the way I am able to taste life more deeply. |