It seems that some of us are called to be pristine; others are known to be messy. My early childhood memories are of myself being either spotless or grubby. I have no memories of moderately clean or somewhat soiled. I hated being smeared or smudged; I was fastidious about being clean except when I wasn’t.

After getting sticky or a little mucky, it didn’t take much effort for me to go “whole hog.” Making mud pies, and playing in dirt: building roads, digging forts, planting flowers, or pulling weeds gave me great joy.

My mom recalls that I hated to get dirty or sweaty. But once I got a little bit dirty, it was over. Hair, clothes, shoes, and me —covered in caked on dirt. As a teenager, I understood a bit more about myself after learning some scripture. A potter works clay. Gives the clay choices. What to become. How to respond. Some clay becomes usable, maybe a vessel or plate — valuable. Other clay is rejected; fit for the potters’ field.

It was an easy transition from the kid who plays in dirt to a teen who grew beyond childish ways. There was a long journey from childhood to a high school pottery class. I liked the class, because I wanted to goof off. I forgot about clay until I was invited to a pottery show. The pottery was beautiful. The potters were funny. There was an opening at Clay Mix in Fresno. At 62, I learned how to wedge, shape, throw, and become a potter. I just had to find out how to interpret what I wanted the clay to become. Thus my journey continues.