At first, I was afraid of you just a little bit. I’d taken classes to learn how to use you, but I wasn’t sure you’d act the same as the other wheels. I mean, everything has its unique rhythm and character. Right? But slowly and quietly with a little soft instrumental music playing, we became friends.
Sometimes, especially at first, I rushed you a little too fast and, well, the clay slipped off you onto the floor. Shocking, yes. But not your fault, obviously. I had to get to know you and learn to lean into you and trust. When I turned you to the left to center a ball of clay and turned you to the right to shape a cup or bowl, it was magic.
We made many, many things together. Big bowls and small ones. Teacups and mugs. Even small sculptured “Party Animals” who helped get me through Covid.
It’s not you, it’s me.
Life threw me some curve balls, that changed me. Illness and surgery made it too painful for me to sit with you and throw. Bending forward and pressing to center just didn’t work the way it used to anymore.
But still you sat there stalwart, waiting quietly in the garage for me. Ready to move into action the moment I plugged you in.
You’ve been there for every change I’ve gone through in the last 20 plus years.
Helping me. Delighting me. Calming me. And most of all giving me a chance to right a wrong that happened all the way back in high school art class: when my ball of clay spun off the wheel and hit the wall behind me. You never did that to me.
Now it’s time for me to let you go. It’s time for you to move on. It’s time for you to find someone, like me, ok maybe someone with more experience, to turn you on. It’s time for you to help transform chunks of messy mud into beautiful things again.
Thank you for all the messy, gooey, luscious fun we had together.
Sigh. I’m going to miss you.
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