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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Early morning in the Pottery Room, I gather my tools, bits and pieces of heating coil, broken and brittle. The kiln still warm from last firing, but empty now, I walk in, turning on the switch that heats the coils as I pass through the arch. Where are the bad spots? I await the coils to turn red. I see a gap, find a piece of broken coil and push it into the gap with a wood handled screwdriver. Another and another each chunk repairing a break, melding the coils together, for now. The kiln is getting hot. Each break is fixed. I back out and turn off the unit. Next firing should be better, all elements working. I can focus now on my Raku ware. Three small vases fired to bisque. I have marked them with glaze. One shows signs of having gotten salt from another's glaze. At the outside kiln, red hot, I lower the pots carefully not to touch one another, setting them gently on the pegs. This firing is not long. Once hot, the glaze shining, smooth, I lift them and drop them carefully into the trash can filled with dried leaves. Ignited, the leaves smoke and smolder. I'll leave them there until the fire goes out. Once they have cooled, I can wipe and polish their surface. Amazed at the red and violet colors that come out against the matt white smoke, and the black shiny spots from the salt. No artist can duplicate these creations, like archological finds 10's of thousands of years old. I see the Zen potter making a pot for Tea Ceremony. I hear the Zendo chime, smell the smoke from his firing. As doves rise with the smoke, we melt together, bonded by tradition and ritual, as we polish our pieces like a tile.
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