My father wanted me to be a lawyer. A veteran of WWII, he wanted me to be able to defend our Bill of Rights. I shared that goal until I experienced my first semester of law school (the best place possible to lose all idealism).
But it wasn’t until I sank my hands into clay when I was 43 that I knew what I did want: to be an artist. A ceramic artist.
I chose hand building because when I took my first throwing class and all the clay ended up on my lap, I didn’t know the OBT effect. One Bad Teacher can all but ruin your relationship with a subject, especially if it is new. But thank goodness I decided to try hand building. It was love at first touch.
In-between teaching college freshman that they can enjoy writing and raising two sons, I have worked with clay ever since.
I find my inspiration in nature, in the reptiles and birds of central Texas which became my home almost forty years ago, Perhaps growing up in urban New Jersey, amidst the oil refineries and scarp metal yards, the row houses framed by treeless streets endowed me with an appreciation for the natural beauty that Austin boasted in 1978 and still continues to hold onto.
The owls hooting outside my window, the anoles peeking from behind my mailbox, the pair of golden crested night herons nesting in my neighbor’s live oak tree grace my home and my life.
Though I am not a practicing Buddhist, Buddhism has also graced my life, teaching me to be present with moments of beauty, to be clear eyed so I can see the hummingbirds darting by, the thumbnail moon at twilight. To be compassionate. And so I plant milkweed and take in the monarch caterpillars until they emerge from their chrysalis and I can release them onto their journey north.
Buddha faces and owls announced themselves more and more on my pots. In the hoo hoo, I hear the universe’s love and mystery.