... and Thursdays are for

Just as Tuesdays are for wood turning, Thursdays are for pottery. Only now, having finished six weeks of hand building with clay, we are learning to paint - pleasant things like bamboo and lotus flowers. This, too, brings its own satisfaction as the classes take place in an old Cajun cottage, restored to house a pottery shop and museum. The history still lives in the cypress boards of the walls and floors - a history of hard working days and warm family nights.

The teacher is a transplanted Brit, with a patient and gentle teaching style, sprinkled with subtle humor, just a hint of mischief, and always a love and passion for his art. In the background are soft, musical tones designed to soothe and relax and by my right hand, just far enough from range to not be mistaken for the water bowl, is a plastic glass of homemade beer. This evening it is a nut brown ale brought to class for us to try by one of the class members.

When it comes time for us to practice, I dip my brush in the black ink and practice the strokes ... and practice the strokes ... and practice the strokes. I don't even pause to wonder what the world is doing. And I don't feel at all guilty for doing nothing to change it. This is my contribution, such as it is. I find places to feel at peace with myself. In this way I am able to be more at peace with others.

Perhaps I sound like one of those older women who have too much time and too little focus. You know, the sort who failed to become deeply entrenched in the world of work and climb the ladder to success.

The sort who chose instead to pursue endeavors that brought with them emotional and personal rewards.

The sort of woman who, upon reaching a certain age, begins to question the direction her life has taken and comes to the not unpleasant realization that the choices, overall, have been good.

The sort who believes the best is yet to come, and it is still unlikely to be found in the pursuit of monetary reward.

The sort who is becoming more herself and less a stranger every day.

I guess I might have made something more of myself. I guess I might have earned more money or achieved more notice or gained more prestige.

On the other hand ... I guess not.

Still here, but not here

I have not fallen from the earth or buried myself at sea or drifted into that realm of never to return. I am still right here, squatting on the bayou, watching the water of Bayou Lafourche meander right on past my back door. Life is full of things, at the moment, that would distract me from writing.

Tuesday evening is for wood-turning. Yes, I am a complete convert, totally immersed, loving the distraction and intensity. I think the attraction is due to two things lacking in other endeavors. Firstly, the results are immediately reinforcing. I can see the quick alteration of shape, and progress is swift and pleasing. As opposed to teaching where you put your back and heart into it and then hold onto the hope that one day your efforts will produce effective change.

Seldom do we see the progress or our students or the alteration of shape. In fact, more and more, in recent days, I have begun to question whether we are, indeed, producing a generation of lifelong learners. My appraisal tells me we are producing a generation of learners who can pass a standardized test. Not a skill they will be likely to use very often over their lifetime. And quite likely, the pursuit of this end has effectively reduced the likelihood of ever developing the love of lifelong learning in the majority of our students.

It has most decidedly reduced the love of teaching for the majority of our teachers.

Returning to the subject of wood on the lathe, the second reason I am finding this so satisfying and addictive is the impossibility of thinking of anything else while that lathe is turning. With the wheel spinning and the knives cutting and the wood shavings flying, I must be fully there, concentrating only on the position of the knife against the wood - not too high or I might get a kick back and not too low or I might get pulled in underneath, causing all sorts of unpleasant grinding noises and running the risk of serious injury. In fact, the constant threat of serious injury - cutting off a finger or damaging an entire hand - demands I stay focused as nothing else in my life does.

So, in this state of complete and focused concentration, with the whirring of the machine and the smell of the wood occupying my senses, I have found a sort of meditation - a resting of my mind. Then and only then I have no opportunity to think of other things, not the worries of the world or even the demands of my own little corner. It is a most pleasant place to be.