I first tried my hand at wheel thrown pottery when I was in University. I had an elective to fill and thought it would be fun to try something new. I was no prodigy, but I wasn’t terrible either, I even managed to make a teapot towards the end of semester.
Fast forward a decade, and I find myself enrolled once again in an 8 week pottery class for beginners, this time at a ceramics studio in Parramatta. Inspired by the notion of solo artist’s dates from the book Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, I decided to give wheel throwing another go, spurred on by the knowledge that I had done so once before.
Somehow, it was even less intuitive than all those years ago. I fought to centre the clay as it spun on the wheel, feeling increasingly frustrated by the resistance I faced. I responded with more force, trying in vain to control the dwindling lump in front of me.
I dipped my hands, countless times, in the water bucket to my left, in the hope that less friction between my hands and the clay would finally yield a passable result. Instead, the water spat out in a million different directions, covering not only me, but those next to me, in bits of slurry.
I paused, noticing how tense I had become. There was no room for flow with my muscles wound so tightly. I released the breath I was holding and repositioned myself in front of the wheel, bracing my elbows against the top of my thighs for leverage. With my hands now soft and supple, I began to get the hang of it. By no means was it perfect, but at least the bowls I created were no longer lopsided.
Centring clay requires patience, practice and a steady, yet soft pair of hands. So much of it is about feel and it takes time to understand what that sweet spot feels like. It’s not so dissimilar to life.
Above: a master ceramicist from PCAI demonstrating the art of centring clay
When we become an observer in the centre of it all, we gain the ability to objectively see life’s fluctuations and rhythms as constant and ever present.
Like being in the eye of a storm, we are witness to the turbulence around us, but are able to remain calm in its presence. The minute we move away from the centre is when we get sucked into the whirlwind and are completely at the effect of external forces. We’re no longer living from a place of ‘cause’ when we’re spinning around like rag dolls, at the behest of every push and shove that comes our way ie. everyone else’s urgencies and emergencies.
While all these analogies are helpful in simplifying and visualising such complex and abstract concepts, they are not forthcoming in how to apply their wisdom to everyday life.
I started writing this post some time ago and was unexpectedly stumped when I asked myself what it would actually look like to live a ‘centred’ life.
The answer came through with incredible clarity on a random Sunday afternoon while journaling about something else entirely:
This feeling of being ‘centred’ in one’s life is intrinsically linked to our ability to be present with our body and how it feels in any given moment.
Since my introduction to Human Design a few years ago I’ve been experimenting with tuning into how my body feels when faced with making a decision.
In the past, all my decision making happened from the neck upwards. Decisions were based on logic and evidence, completely ignoring the sensations and signals from my body.
During one deep dive into the nuances of Human Design I came across a piece of text by Christie Inge that stuck with me. She says:
“Knowledge and wisdom are two different things. Knowledge happens in the mind. Wisdom happens when knowledge is integrated into the body.”
How often do we ignore the pit in our stomach or the feeling of dread when saying yes to something we think we ‘should’ do instead of acknowledging the resounding ‘no’ that our body is telling us.
This all harks back to how tense my body had become when I was trying to logic my way into centring the clay. It required me dropping into how my body was feeling and the sensation of my hands against the clay in order to finally find some synergy with the dwindling lump before me.
Dropping down (from the head) into the body is a daily practice that requires patience and compassion. When we’re willing to quieten the mind, we’re better able to listen to the signals and sensations present in our body, however subtle.
It is from this place of alignment with our body that we can begin to make decisions that are in alignment with our truest desires.
As a result, we are less likely to get swept up in the turbulence that surrounds us.
Since I began this practice of checking in with my body I’ve become more present to the many ways in which I unconsciously take on or absorb pressure that is not my own. In the past it has been this ‘pressure’ that has knocked me off my centre as I scramble to keep up with how things are ‘supposed’ to be done, thereby fitting the mould of the kind of person that society expects me to be.
Being caught in the rings of pressure that spiral out from the centre of this ‘storm’ resulted in perpetual exhaustion. It was hard to fathom why I felt so unfulfilled when I was following the tried and tested paths to success.
In hindsight the answer is glaringly obvious. I often didn’t trust my own intuition, thinking that the opinions of others who had gone before me were more valid than my own inner knowing.
We each have our individual journeys in life, and as I dive deeper into my own experiences I’m discovering that mine is to trust myself above all else. To do so effectively means working with both the mind and body to live a life that is centred and ultimately true to me.
Another beautiful, wise piece! Thank you, Alisha 🤍