It was just a batter bowl, you might say. But, really, it was so much more than that. It was an idea. It was a desire for a not-yet-potter to become one - to sit, to learn, to invest the hours, to make the mistakes, to keep trying. It was the flow of knowledge and wisdom from master to student. It was better, and better still. It was confidence. It was balance and weight and form. It was the music that floated and the thoughts that passed as the pot was thrown. It was time. It was glaze. It was firing. It was waiting. It was the finished piece given with one hand and hard-earned cash received with the other. It was validation and earning and a living.
Twenty years ago, a hand-thrown pottery batter bowl was given to us as a wedding gift. It resided within arm's reach in every kitchen we had, easily the most-used bowl in the cupboard. For a quick batch of pancakes, it was ideal, with its handle and spout. But, it was also daily used as a vessel for filling the coffee maker with water, for holding the sunny yolks soon to become scrambled eggs, for the biscuit mix and milk that was stirred together on faintly-lit mornings. It's story had become part of our story, every day.
The day it broke, one side gashed out completely, we mourned our loss. Seems silly, I know, to be broken-hearted over a broken bowl, but there we were, wondering how we'd fair without it. I knew I could jump online immediately and order a random, foreign-made, mass-produced bowl, complete with a handle and spout in just one click, but our twenty-year experience with utilitarian craftsmanship, with hand-made beauty, with local art, stopped me. I had to find another potter who could make another bowl.
Best thing was, I already knew her, and her studio was just down the road. The day I gave her the broken bowl and the broken story, she gave me a smile and confidence that there would be another.
The waiting paid off when I walked into her studio yesterday. There sat, not one, but two batter bowls to choose from, one white, one turquoise. Oh, my. I'd ordered white, but that blue...
The amount I wrote on the check I gave her was more by far than the one-click bowl would have been. But, no matter, those dollars were intentionally placed and thoughtfully given for the continued story of our years of coming mornings. They paid for the pleasure of using a piece that was made by hand by an artist I may run into at the post office, at the yoga studio, or at the concert in the park. They were paying the kiln cost, the clay cost, and the talent of the local potter who keeps a tradition alive.
I like to think that our intention works that way, that our choices in one area can open up options in others. What if we chose to not purchase plastic wrap, paper towels, or other 'throw-away' things (fill in the blank), so money can be saved, then given for the handmade piece? In our current consumerist society, where our nation has collectively taken cheap merchandise over ethics and craftsmanship, it feels good to push back, to make small changes, and small (big) choices such as this.
Pancakes, coming up!
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