Today, I learned another lesson from clay making. After spending yesterday evening shaping five miniature mushrooms from clay, drying and carefully applying underglaze this afternoon, I decided they are ready for firing. Armed with a microwave kiln, a healthy dose of curiosity, and no pottery experience, I placed the pieces inside and started the process.
Two minutes later, I heard popping. Perhaps not the kind of sound one wants to hear when experimenting with clay and heat. So, I quickly turned the microwave off and decided that whatever happened next could wait. The kiln would stay closed. The project would cool on its own. There was nothing left for me to do.
And that’s when it occurred to me that pottery may have arrived in my life at exactly the right time.
Lately, I’ve spent a lot of energy worrying about things I cannot control. When someone you love is struggling, making difficult choices, or trying to find their own path, every part of you wants to fix it, guide it, or protect it.
But some things cannot be rushed. Clay needs time to dry. Underglaze needs time to settle.
A kiln needs time to cool.
And people need time to think.
Today, the best thing I could do was nothing at all.
So, the kiln is sitting quietly — cooling down. Some of my mushroom figures may have survived the firing, or all will be pile of broken pieces. Whatever I find when I open the lid, it will be the result of a process that can’t be hurried.
Life seems to work that way too. Sometimes the hardest part isn’t doing the work. It’s waiting.
Waiting for answers. Waiting for healing. Waiting for conversations. Waiting for people we love to find their way.
So today, I’m choosing to let the kiln cool.
Tomorrow will arrive soon enough and the answers I’m looking for may not be. Deep inside, I will continue worrying despite knowing it will not solve my questions. For now, I’ll try return to the things that bring me peace— creating… learning.
The kiln can wait.vAnd perhaps, for today, so can everything else.
