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Light

Christmas 1999

Christmas Morning: the culmination of MONTHS of shopping, spending, decorating, wrapping, baking, planning.  December 26th: we can’t put it all away fast enough.  As a kid, I can picture the naked Christmas trees abandoned at the ends of white driveways up and down our Minnesota streets.  But not the Wood House!  Those old colorful bulbs shone proudly through the frosty picture window until the first week in January.  Having come from an Orthodox Catholic home, my mother insisted on keeping the tree up until Three Kings’ Day, otherwise known as The Epiphany. I recall feeling some embarrassment for not keeping pace with the neighbors.  And yet today, 40-some years later, pop over to my place around January 7th and you will find Christmas still at it, trees and all.  

Either way- the day after or 2 weeks later, that stuff has to come down.  I dread it just as much as the next guy.  Room by room, I disassemble the holiday, eager to have my house back & free of dust-collecting Christmas chach-keys.  In no time at all, the whole thing turns into the mom version of “If You Give A Mouse A Cookie”:  If you give a mom a ladder, she’s gonna notice the dusty fans and need a vacuum.  When she goes to get the vacuum...  You get the idea. The process is painstaking: fake pine needles sprinkled about, stray hooks that find their way into the carpet and plastic tubs that somehow seem incapable of housing the Christmas Crap-ola that just one month prior came out of them!   

Hog pile with Dad - 2003

By hour eight of the dismantling process, I drag my ladder over to the family room tree: the last remaining evidence of Christmas 2013.  Savoring one last holiday moment, I plug the tree in as I begin the unraveling.  Winding tiny twinkle lights onto a wheel, a nostalgic sadness envelopes me.  So many bulbs, so many memories. I stop, holding that warm ring of a thousand lights & snap a mental picture of its radiance.  I’m reminded of all the lights in my life: my four children and husband of 22 years. I think back to decades of parenting and marriage, with all its challenges and gifts. I thank God for the many bright souls who were a light to my sometimes darkened path.       

My Four Babies - 2013

Before I know it, another Christmas is put away: the wad of lights in their proper tub, and the tree, squeezed into its tattered box for safe keeping until next year.  I pause, pondering those three kings... ‘Star of wonder, star of night, star with royal beauty bright, westward leading, 

still proceeding, 

guide us to thy Perfect Light.’

'Tis The Season

October marks the beginning of a new Etsy Chrismas Season. These last 2 months encompass 80% of my year’s work.  As an artist & shop owner this equates to long production days in the studio.  Creating with clay’s earthy aroma & slippery goop smeared up to my elbows is God’s taylor-made job for this chica. Called to contrive these reminders of our Savior’s birth, it is this Catholic girl’s way of evangelizing, one baby Jesus at a time.

And yet, those warm fuzzy feelings are usually fleeting.  I must admit, come early December, not only am I up to my elbows in icy water, I am knee-deep in bad attitude.  Pandora’s Christmas tunes and my favorite tea only go so far....

Enter Victoria.  In recent weeks, I have been privileged to have this peaceful painter alongside me in the studio; sharing stories, laughter & tears over some tea and a bag of clay.  With faith enough to move mountains; abundant joy in the days’ smallest of treasures; the courage of a thousand warriors, and ample hope when even the bleakest of news is on her horizon, she is not just a friend.  She is one of my favorite people. Were it not for her salt & pepper chemo ‘do’, you would never know the future she faces.  Born just three years before me, she is who I want to be when I grow up.

Alone in the studio, I plop down in front of my wheel to throw the day’s 50-some wine glasses, and notice my phone’s message alert. It is a customer, offering a touching account of her grieving friend who will soon receive my creation. It marks only one of many sacred stories. Tears stream from my tired eyes; shame for my selfish, ungrateful attitude.  I whisper a prayer of contrition and Victoria’s wise words bubble to the surface, settling on my muddied soul, “This is not just a job, Daina. This is your ministry.”

I return to my work and begin a soft hum to Sara Groves on Pandora, “God is for us, God is with us, God is in us: Emmanuel.”

I've been featured in Artizan Magazine!  Click to see publications.catstonepress.com/i/227739/10

Humility

As with any job, we have certain tools we simply cannot do without.  Mine happens to be a giant toaster. It is here, that ordinary dried mud is transformed into original works of art.  

In recent weeks, that cooker has struggled the climb to 2250 degrees: the clay’s necessary curing temp. In a potter’s perfect world, 10-12 hours is ample time to complete a firing cycle.  But Ol’ Bessy was taking upwards of 26 hours to get there. Conversations went back and forth to my supplier, kiln manufacturer, and jack-of-all-trades/fellow-artist-friend Gary. I was determined to fix this beast myself.  The most obvious solution was to switch out the elements, which have a shelf life of 150 or so firings.  According to YouTube, the average bear can pull this off in a matter of hours,  no problemo.

Sure enough, four hours and about 293 old element fragments later, and I had myself some fresh coils in place!  Now just to ‘season the elements’ with a quick low-fire load, and my girl would be up and going.  Visions of a victorious blog post & Facebook brag flooded this electrician’s-daughter brain. 

As it turns out, God was cooking up a different story with a small dose of humility.  I awoke the next morning only to find my kiln STILL struggling to warm up after 8 hours. (Insert bad word here!)  Frustrated, back to my people I went: supplier, manufacturer, friend. He must have heard the desperation in my voice.  In the middle of my rant Gary casually mentions, “Daina, I have an extra kiln that you’re welcome to borrow.”  What? Who can say that: ‘I happen to have an extra kiln just laying around.  Oh, and it’s just like yours, only newer and practically un-used’?

In a mere 10 hours my first load in that borrowed kiln was done.  Bam. Back in business!  Excitedly, I phoned my friend Gary only to hear his heart-melting words that still ring in my head: “Daina, I want you to keep the kiln.”  

Every morning since then, I step into my studio & glance at the shiny gift beside my decrepit old toaster; thankful, humbled, blessed. 

Salvation

I happened upon a husband/wife argument in the craft aisle at Walmart. Topic: money.  I innocently wandered in their direction, amused to be privy to such a hot topic.  He had the last word and as she pushed her cart past the center Hershey kiosk, a 2 pound bag was hurled into her cart as she sighed under her breath,  "Chocolate's my only salvation."

She had me thinking, 'What's mine?'

I've been force-fed potential bitter news in recent days.  Topic: health.  It's hard to stomach the whole aging process; increased risk for disease, too high of this, not enough of that, fill in the blank.  It's being 9 years old again at the dinner table.  Feeding a family of seven on a modest one-income household looked a little like this: occasional chuck 'steak' dinner with a puddle of Heinz-57.  My creatively efficient mother would throw that sucker on the grill and divide the tough leather slab into sevens.  (For years into adulthood, I couldn't figure out what the big deal was about steak.)  Needless to say, this meant for a long night at the kitchen table as Mom kept watch from her post at the sink, enforcing the 'finish your plate' rule.  Among the moans and sighs at the thought of having to choke that stuff down, you could hear all the neighborhood kids having left their dinner tables to play Kick the Can, even ringing the doorbell to ask if we could play. Yet there I sat; one hand plugging my nose as I chewed and chewed and CHEWED on that grisly hunk of meat.

Muddy hands and a dozen pots in, it hits me yesterday:  THIS is my salvation! This is where I forget the future and get lost in the present.  This is MY sweet escape, my fort, my desert oasis, my chocolate kiosk.  Time returns to a quiet pace and the hours tick by.  I pause & thank God for my hands, my wheel, His dirt.  And I chew.

HOT HOT HOT

Up to our eyeballs in that old 'dry heat' here in the Valley of the Sun.  (Or not-so-dry as we locals see it, with the Monsoons now here through September.)  I do get my share of it with my studio in the garage.  Westward facing, I get out there early before it warms up too much.  If you happen to pop in later in the day, you will most likely find me sopping wet.  Every so often I jump in the pool, then drag my soggy self back to the studio, and enjoy the swamp cooler effect for an hour or so til I dry off and it's time for another dip.  This keeps me going for hours, along w/ a little Ray LaMontagne on Pandora & a healthy jug of ice water.  When the kiln is going or cooling, all bets are off.

There are several factors that make pottery 'food safe'.  One critical piece is that the clay be fired to maturity.  Every clay has a 'cone', referring to the temp or 'heat absorption' that it needs to be fired to before it is no longer porous.   In theory, clay is allowed to first air dry (in pottery world: 'bone dry'), then bisque fired to begin the curing process.  Upon cooling, these pieces are glazed with what looks like various shades of blue or green or brown muddy water, then fired once again to complete the process.  Pictured below: these pinkish wine glass bottoms and olive oil jugs are fresh out of the bisque load.  When complete, the clay turns into a buff color with speckles, hence the name: Speckled Buff.