Perched in the crudely built corner shelves of our Detroit kitchen back in the ‘70s sat a little clay statue, painted & fired before smoothing out the many fingerprint divots, revealing a very amateur sculptor.
But my parents displayed it with pride. I guess because it was made by my own hands. From start to finish. Meaning I dug up the clay from the swampy woods behind our house, shaped it and let it harden before painting it.
When everyone was making crude bowls and ashtrays out of clay, I sculpted a figure.
Parents in my time all seemed pleased enough to receive an ashtray. Did everyone smoke back then? My parents had enough ashtrays.
My figure wore a robe and a crown, so maybe I was thinking of a king at the time. Why? I cannot imagine. And I can still remember the pretty blue sheen on that robe, for the sculpture lasted into my adulthood before my parents sold their house and we lost track of the little king.
I took my granddaughter to a ceramics studio for a little birthday one-on-one date the other day. I imagined us scraping the seams & sanding a mold of her choice, certainly not an ashtray.
We spent a good amount of time perusing the shelves of turtles, bunnies, coffee cups & trinket boxes and finally decided on a mermaid sitting atop a clamshell jewelry box. As I got a table and searched for the tools that were nowhere to be found, the owner of the studio assured us that we only need sponge off the object to remove dust and go right to painting.
That was missing some crucial steps for the whole experience in my humble opinion.
If we weren’t actually sculpting the object like I did way back when, I at least wanted her to get her hands dirty in the process of bringing this piece to fruition.
I suppose I was trying to recreate a bit of my childhood experience because I hold that my growing up in that time & place planted and watered a bit of resilience in me.
Back to my woods I so often write about.
Back to this enchanted place where we kids explored daily, losing all track of time.
Back to the discovery of clay beneath the dirt—far beneath.
Have you ever dug through dirt and mud down to the slippery gray clay? And then used strength and found garden shovels to gather clumps of it in a basket to take home? And then filled a pail with water to keep it nearby so the clay stayed moist as you worked?
Have you ever felt the clay in your hands as you try to get your vision molded into a tangible object?
Creating something. Imagine what it must do to your brain.
The feeling is somehow etched inside of me, for my muscle memory is quite vivid.
The creative process of writing a family story is like this.
Readers have asked how all of these memories featured in My Father’s Daughter remained intact. Unspooled but woven through to the end.
Ancient writings use a beautiful metaphor of a Sculptor who molds us. Shapes us and adorns us. I believe this Creator placed the story in my heart and set me free to gather all the clay needed to build the narrative that turned into the project I published.
Something tangible. Not just for me but for you.
When you look at it, think of a king. One I may have tried to represent a long time ago. One who had ahold of me.
One who brought me out of the miry clay and set my feet on solid rock.
{If you enjoy these stories, sharing them helps others dive in too. ♥️ And if you’re curious about 🔗 My Father’s Daughter, you can read the first 10 pages for free on Amazon. 🔗}
"When you look at it, think of a king. One I may have tried to represent a long time ago. One who had ahold of me.
One who brought me out of the miry clay and set my feet on solid rock."
Perfect!
Love this story! I agree with you about the value of sculpting clay vs just painting it! I remember the feel of the cool, wet clay on a pottery wheel at a county fair up north.