It looks pretty messy."

Ethan is doubtfully gazing at an open bag of water clay.    

"Maybe we should do it another day."

"You’re going to play soccer in a muddy field after this," his father offered.

Ethan inched back from the bag.  

I asked to help me pull some clay out.  "I can't wait to show you how to wedge clay.

  I think you’ll love it.  Help me pull some out.”

Ethan tentatively stuck his fingers in the bag and tore out a small lump of clay. 

 It was soft, smooth and gooey.  Ethan looked fascinated by its warmth but unhappy with its cling.

 He began to run his fingers on the canvass-covered bat.    

“Hey!  That’s nowhere near enough!  Help me get this out of the bag.”  I tore at a large piece. 

 Ethan, primarily because of his good manners, hesitantly began to help.  

I needed to get Ethan involved as he was becoming less and less comfortable with the clay on his hands.

I picked up the lump, held it high and slapped it hard onto the bat.  Ethan started slightly.  

"This is how you begin to wedge clay."

He looked fascinated.

"Here, you try.  Throw it down hard."

Ethan picked up the clay and threw it onto the bat.

"Good start but harder."

He tried two more times, getting it right on the third time.  I showed him how to press the clay 

onto the bat surface, explaining that he had to move his body over the clay so that he could use 

the strength in his shoulders.  

Ethan began to follow my demonstration, and for the first time in the two years that I had known him, 

he unconsciously positioned himself correctly.  After several minutes, the clay was ready for the wheel.

And it seemed that he had forgotten about the mess.

Continued to “...the meaning of Shemirah”