I looked around the ceramics studio where I was taking a beginning, wheel-throwing class. Eight pottery wheels were arranged in a semi-circle, whirring and spinning a sort of white-noise soundtrack.
The ladies who sat around me had elegant tall cylinders on their wheels. I looked down at mine. It was short and thick; a sturdy sort of piece. I cupped my hands around the walls and attempted to give it a more dignified shape.
Then the teacher called out her next instruction. “Now, pull the top of your cylinder up and in to make a closed shape. Like this.”
She wet her hands in a bucket of water beside her wheel and cupped the top of her cylinder. Slowly, she guided the clay up and around the opening until it was a perfect dome.
“Now you try.” She said.
“What?” I thought to myself. “How on earth am I supposed to do that?”
I returned to my cylinder and gave my pedestrian object a side-eye. With a deep breath, I plunged my hands into the bucket of water. I stepped on the pedal, and the wheel came to life.
Too much pressure from my hands, and the walls began to buckle. Slowing the wheel down, and my hands stuck to the sides. Bits of clay tore away, and I doubled down on my blob of a creation.
“You will do my bidding!” I whispered to my clay.
And wouldn’t you know, it collapsed altogether, and I had to start over.
“You have to be firm, yes, but gentle.” My teacher coached me.
I knew this in my mind, but I’d yet to feel it in my hands. I let out a heavy sigh and started again.
Moving slower than a turtle, slower than a snail, slower than a glacier, I tentatively pulled the walls together. Centimeter by half-centimeter, they crept closer together. I tuned out the din of conversation from my fellow potters and focused on the hopeful lump of clay in front of me.
And then it happened. I gently closed the gap at the top of my cylinder and arrived at a hollow bell shape. I pulled my hands away slowly and cocked my head to the side to admire my work.
“Perfect!” My teacher shouted from across the room, a big grin on her face.
I smiled back. It wasn’t easy to put so much attention into something while simultaneously exerting less effort. But the truth is, sometimes (often) more effort doesn’t make for more better. Sometimes what we need is a gentle attention.
I will return to class tomorrow, and my teacher will probably guide us through the next most challenging skill. I won’t feel ready. In fact, I’ll probably ruin my first attempt. But that’s okay. It’s a good reminder that effort doesn’t always show up as force. Sometimes our effort is measured by how willing we are to go gently — with clay or anything we’re facing in life.
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