Prayer in the Angeles Forest

I woke up this morning with my, of late, customary Dread That Has No Reason other than The Usual. I had planned on taking Oliver out to the Angeles National Forest for one of those Jim Robertson Aboriginal Skills classes* that I told you about more than a year ago when I started homeschooling. This one was Primitive Pottery. Reader, I did not want to go this morning and spent a good half hour in bed pondering whether and why. I finally decided that since I'd paid and gotten a babysitter for Sophie, I would do it.

Well, thank the good lord I did it.

I bet ya'll didn't know that you can drive for about 51 minutes outside of Los Angeles and see this.

And this:

 And this:

Jim made fire the primitive way, and then we passed around a smudge stick to introduce ourselves.

Then we set about making pottery, right down to the clay. We even made what's called the "temper."

Here are a few of the pots made in previous classes:

Oliver and I warmed up -- very chilly in the woods -- while eating our lunch:

Here are our pots:

Then we made paint. We literally made paint:

Ya'll I am not an artist, and while my intention was stronger than the finished project, my little one came out pretty damn good. I even made a lid for it. We learned all sorts of things about clay and paint and firing and all that jazz, but I won't tell you here (mainly because I didn't know what the hell I was doing).

What I can tell you is that I highly recommend a full day (ten hours for us!) in the woods. I feel utterly relaxed tonight, and I haven't felt that way in a long time. I'm not even irritated at myself for going so long without this kind of natural respite.

Jim made us a pot of soup right on the fire. It had some kind of organic vegetable bouillon, greens and herbs from the woods and water. Someone asked Jim whether he meditated or prayed. He said,

No, I don't pray. My life is a constant prayer.

Amen.










*Other Jim Robertson Aboriginal Skills posts:

In His Element: Dispatch from the School of Revolution

Aboriginal Skills Part II

The Burn Bowl

My friend Moye

is an extraordinary artist.

That's a wall of ceramic vessels, each in its own tiny cigar case. It was part of Moye's first solo show, and the opening was in Santa Monica on Saturday night. I gasped when I saw what she had created over the last six months -- never has clay and chicken wire and color and simple, utilitarian objects been created and arranged with such startling beauty.

Moye is one of my oldest friends. We went to junior high school together in Atlanta and then high school. She has always been one of the most talented people I've ever known, and also the sweetest. Be on the look-out for her work as she'll soon be designing art pieces for Crate and Barrel!

Bravo, Moye. I am so proud to know you!

Moye's gift

to me is so beautiful that it's worthy of a post all its own. Moye (pronounced like toy but with an m) is one of my oldest friends -- and that's not because she is old but because I've known her and been friends with her for almost 35 years (O.K., so maybe we're old, too).  Moye played Scrabble with me as I sat in a hospital bed, having contractions. She was the first person whom I loved other than The Husband to see Sophie when she was born. She is Sophie's godmother, and when she gave birth to her daughter Claire, I received the honor of being her godmother. Moye is one of the most beautiful, talented women I've ever known -- a gifted writer, incredibly funny and sweet, sweet, sweet. She is also an extraordinary ceramist and potter. Her beautiful pottery graces every nook and cranny in my house; I eat cereal from her bowls, place flowers in her vases and otherwise live and look at her gorgeous art every day. You can see it HERE.


A while back I shared a poem with Moye that I'd read somewhere and that I knew she would love.

Here's the poem:

The Patience of Ordinary Things


It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they're supposed to be.
I've been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?

--Pat Schneider


Here's what Moye made me:

Thank you, Moye! I love you --