Opening the Clay

(which saved my life, or my sanity, at least)

   

In Chuck’s room at Hospice was a clay statue someone had made, and I whispered to my daughter Catherine that I’d like to try and make something like that one day. It was a tall figure, a woman, I think, rather roughly fashioned, made of reddish clay, and she stood on the windowsill.  Often a musician would come by in the afternoon, asking what songs the dying residents wanted to hear. You could tell their ages by the songs that were requested. So many tunes from the forties. From down the hall, you’d suddenly hear a violin, then a voice singing “Where or When.”

     This is how I write about Hospice instead of what it was like to see him there. This is what I write about instead of what it was like visiting him months earlier, sitting outside his house at a picnic table. Chuck beginning to talk, then leaning forward to hold his head in his hands, unable to finish the sentence. Liver disease. Hep C. Ammonia gone to his brain. Chuck helpless. Unthinkable.

     The next day Catherine gave me a box of air dry clay. This was before Chuck died. Then he died, and since he had been my best  friend for forty years, I didn’t know what to do with myself. So I opened the clay.

Photo by Zoe on Unsplash

I fell in love. The soft damp feel of the clay in my hand, the slow figuring out of what I could and couldn’t do with it.  Forget coffee. The first thing I do every morning is stick my left hand into a plastic bag of terra cotta and start grabbing. I have to keep at it, because even though it’s damp, the clay can be stiff. My hand seems to know how much it wants. It varies. I look at the raggedy lump when I first bring it out, to see if there’s anything implied, anything resembling something else—a dog’s head, or a bird, maybe the beginnings of someone’s dimpled chin. That is very exciting, because then I get to look for the rest of whatever is in there.  I am in love with possibility, the very opposite of death. If I don’t find something or someone right away, I give it another squeeze, and look again. If still nothing, I roll in around in both hands, and start shaping the raggedy lump into an oval. It gets messy. I don’t know why it’s always an oval, except I love the word—oval—and the possibilities implicit in that shape. Often, on the oval, there might be the suggestion of a nose, and I start there. I love noses, big ones, crooked ones, broken ones, pointy ones, and when most of the nose  is done, I do the nostrils. Nostrils are important to convey a mood, and very delicate. Flared, I have to be so careful. Once I have the nose, I have the cheekbones and where the eyes will be, and eventually, the mouth. I use my fingertips to make eyelids. I keep a dish of water to smooth things out if need be. When the face is done I put it on the radiator to dry. It’s cold, and I’ve got the heat on. I love this part. I used to lean over to see how they were doing, but finally drew up a little chair to keep track of their progress. I visit them every couple of hours, and pick each one up to get a sense of their half-doneness, or doneness, which is interesting, they weigh so much less. They are separating from me, turning into themselves. I am watching over them, really.