Eight degrees of separation

They say, don't, and then you go and do it anyway.

I have embraced working with clay. Sister dearest’s birthday present to me last year in October was a 3-hour workshop in hand building with clay. I made an exquisite bowl on a foot, even though that was not the assignment.

The other women on the team stuck to the instruction. They made cups with letters on it spelling their names. I said, ‘I’m sorry, I want to make a conic bowl on a foot. I don’t want to make a cup with my name on it.’ The instructor said, ‘I don’t have such a shape to give you.’ I said, ‘never mind, I’ll do it anyway. And so I did. It came out beautifully.

When I went in again to glaze the thing, I asked her: ‘do you have porcelain clay?’ ‘No, she said. It’s too complicated.’ I went home and started reading about it. The words that went into describing working with porcelain came close what the instructor said: ‘finicky,’ ‘it dries too fast and it cracks,’ ‘capricious,’ ‘don’t even think about it, especially if you’re a beginner.’

This year I turn 57. If not now, then when? ‘I’ve worked with clay for 7 years,’ another member reported, and then offered this image: ‘I got some porcelain two years ago, and I still haven’t mustered the courage to try it. It sits in my studio.’ The phrase that came to my mind was this: eight degrees of separation from the desire to try something that most people have contrarian opinions about: seven years plus whatever the current waiting for it to happen is up to.

I bought 10 kilos of porcelain. I made two pieces in one sitting from a slab. I had no idea what I was doing. But I did it anyway. The more the clay dried, the whiter it got. I felt like pulling a chair next to it, and watch it change color. I got thoroughly excited about it. The finesse that I tried to imbue the shapes with became more and more precious; in the right sense of that word. The more I watched what I made, the more I felt a stirring. My porcelain vessels moved my heart. It was as if I had never seen anything more beautiful.

I read the cards for it: the Pope, the Emperor, and the Lovers showed up. The instructor said, ‘don’t.’ The Pope made her transmission and then gave me the cautioning finger. I decided otherwise. I made a ruling for it: I was going to make porcelain vessels in spite of the dividing opinions about it. I don’t have time to play games with doubt. Also, my idea of working with clay doesn’t involve words that range from entertainment to therapy: ‘because it’s fun,’ ‘because it’s good for your nerves,’ or ‘because it’s good for introverts.’

The woman who showed me how to cut a stoneware slab promised me that if I insisted and came to her with a load of porcelain vessels, she was going to burn them for me in her kiln on my responsibility.

I’m ready to make more. But these first two here have already imprinted their mark on my soul. They also carry my initials, my ‘black tulip’ seal for the notion of clavis et essentia, the key and the essence. I will not be separated from the mystery of this wonder. I will let my fingers go over this white clay, and together we shall make history.

For a sustained practice with the cards:

• Join the Read like the Devil Practice Club.

• Visit Aradia Academy and sign up for the newsletter that will keep you informed on upcoming courses and cartomantic activities. Note the Off the Shelf offering that also includes free resources.

• Get a reading. When I perform a reading, I also teach, simply because I can't help myself, so you will be twice served.

• Check out my books on the philosophy and practice of divination at EyeCorner Press.

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