The Pottery Wheel

• Michelle Huynh, Grade 12, Moorebank High School
• Short Story
• 2017

Excellence Award in the 'Spread The Word 2017' competition

“There is a crack, a crack in everything.
That’s how the light gets in.”
– Leonard Cohen, Wabi-Sabi: For Artists, Designers, Poets & Philosophers

The wooden paper doors slid open, allowing the rush of tree leaves and flowering scents to hustle in. A few buzzing of the hummingbird wings only ever slightly distracted my concentration.Footsteps padded lightly on the mat as a long-robed shadow glimpsed by, the body heaving as it slowly lowered itself to sit beside me. The soft lumber of age was blatantly obvious. Often my senses would be directed at passing witty claims if I wasn’t being so preoccupied with the spinning model in front of me.

“Care for some tea?”

Routine. The question started as a genuine gesture of care but seeing how my eyes and brows twitched in annoyance, it later became a tease. Of course, my wit was sharper. Even Master knows. With age comes a replacement. You see yourself plastered on other people’s faces as fame until gradually, they don’t even turn their heads for a second glance anymore.

“Ah, what am I going to do with you?”

My lips clenched tight, refusing to utter a word, as I looked upon the morphing shape in front. Hands at the side of the dough, I gently curved it around the figure, the platform spinning until it made a near complete circle. There was only a tiny dent on the side where my trembling, scratched palms involuntarily pressed a bit too hard. Master must’ve sensed my rising anxiety as he gently tugged my hands away from the pot. I glanced up at his bearded face, the white strands of hair cascaded in all directions burying his wrinkled lips. His eyes were kind, like an old lion resting beneath a shade - majestic but sagacious. I was yet to hear what important thing he had to say before interrupting my pottery lesson. His own hands, rolls of skin covering feeble bones, placed itself on the still-turning work, softly pressing down the pot until it spun into a wobbly circle.

“Master!”

It would be rude to tear his palms away from my project. All I really had intact was my voice anyway. My hands were far too wearied from the hours of building.

“Pottery is made to be the art of Wabi-sabi. Of finding imperfection beautiful. Accept this and you will have the power to accept everything.”

I looked upon the ruined circle riddled with dents and cracks. I heaved a discontented sigh, averting my gaze. I couldn’t bear witness to all the hard work wasted.

“Look here.”

I shifted my head warily to the wheel. The dough was moulded into an unrecognisable bowl – the dip in the centre crinkled with pressed hand marks. The smooth brown illuminated into fire gold as the sun beamed its rays upon the pottery wheel. Light danced upon the spinning pot, like embellished jewels twinkling amidst a November twilight sky.
I gazed for a little longer.

“It’s beautiful.”