Returning to it now, years later, I find that wet clay still has that smell I appreciate. Reaching down and digging it out of the barrel is a familiar activity ... once again I am singing as I make little pots ... which I now envision supporting a mere tablespoon of mirror-still water, or maybe a few beads.
As I press the wet clay between my fingers, I have to wonder ... what am I doing ...? As I crush the snow beneath my feet, I have to wonder ... why collect these experiences in my mind, these sensations ... if I am not training myself to share them ...? What does the texture of old snow underneath wet rubber have to do with art history ...? What does the strange mark on the old tile have to interest academia? Who would want to hear about the things I observe ...?
I am worried ... what if I find myself amongst people who have become so absorbed in their work, they have forgotten the little experiences that made the subject in the first place? What if they don't want to hear about it from someone who doesn't have a doctorate attached to her name?