As someone well-versed in play-doh, air dry clay did not seem much different. I was wrong, of course.
Air dry clay, a natural earth clay, is often described as beginner-friendly. No kiln. No oven. No baking. No firing. No fancy equipment. Just your hands, a bit of shaping, and a race against air and time. And as I was told by the internet repeatedly, it is perfect for beginners.
While that may be true, I let that reassurance carry me somewhere a little foolish. I let it convince me I could create something extraordinary before I even touched a single lump of clay because I am extremely skilled at building potential…
In people. In places. In hobbies. I do not just see potential, but I create and expand it. I take all the good and stretch it wider. I fill the empty spaces with even more good. I soften the bad until they barely exist.
As the saying goes, ‘distance makes the heart grow fonder,’ and my mind has an incredibly large imagination. I romanticize the ordinary, and the ordinary is not always meant to be beautiful.
With clay, I daydreamed about selling finished pieces before I even took it out of the packet. I let myself drift into dreams of potential.
I have noticed this pattern (clearly). I try to catch my imagination before it floats too far. I jump to grab it like the string of a balloon escaping into the sky. But I do not always get hold of it.
I overlooked the delicacy of the process: scoring and slipping, blending and smoothing, shaping with careful pressure. Clay is not a forgiving medium I found out very soon (and what others probably already knew without a lesson).
Too much force, and the piece collapses. Too little, and it falls apart. It cracks when rushed. It cracks when handled too slowly. Sometimes it cracks for no clear reason at all. Each misstep came with an emotion, ranging from disappointment to frustration.
Even more surprising was my emotion after my piece did not crack, and success found me.
When I finally formed and painted a clay piece exactly as I envisioned, I did not feel giddy or proud. I felt relief. Relief because that is what I expected would happen. Success felt less like a gift and more of a fulfilled requirement.
And this pattern extends far beyond clay.
Getting into school. Finding a job. Finishing projects. The all-encompassing feeling after each milestone was relief. Not the loud celebration I saw in college acceptance videos.
The expectation can be a double edged sword. On one hand, it reflects my belief in my own capabilities; I have trust in my own potential. On the other hand, it leaves little room for uncertainty. For luck. For timing. For the variables only the universe controls. For the fact that growth takes repetition, failure, and time.
When I turn every beginning into a fully-formed fantasy, I rob myself of the joy of success. Building certainty around that potential can steal your happiness. If the extraordinary is already expected, it no longer feels extraordinary.
So now, when I sit down with a new block of clay, I tell myself something different.
I just started working with clay, and it will take some time to get skilled.
I have so much time and space to grow.
Sometimes, success with clay comes down to luck.
Sometimes, things are just out of my control.
And then, if it does work out, if the piece holds, if the paint settles just right, what a joy it will be.
When you expect the extraordinary, you only ever feel relief when you receive it.
And relief is quiet and simple. Joy is loud and beautiful.
Check out My Video: Full Process