Year 4: settled nervous systems and leaps of faith
Sometimes in the studio doing quiet tasks or singing and dancing along to the music while people get in the zone, or connecting with you over something funny, unexpected, disappointing or confusing, I am overcome with a wave of emotions. It usually happens once a month or so… but lately it’s been happening multiple times a class. A few weeks ago, I felt myself welling up several times… especially when people called the my teaching style “wonderful,” the space “pleasant,” and the class the “best way they spent their time all week.”
Grounding in the studio
I do my best to incorporate grounding exercises, trauma-aware instruction and a fostered connection to everyone’s nervous systems – including mine. Because of this attention, I feel the stress, anxiety and pain that people are experiencing. This is a hard time to live in – while here in the Bay many of us have an incredible amount of privilege and amenities, we are still navigating and suffering within systems that feel out of our immediate control.
I continuously witness the positive effect of the studio, my approach, and the clay in motion on nervous systems. Some people verbalize it at the end - “When I came in, I was having a terrible day. So many thoughts were racing through my head, I couldn’t focus on one thing. Now I feel completely different. I feel calm.” One person mentioned that coming to clay class helped them sleep better, and increased the likelihood of getting out of bed to start their day the next day. Most people mention that the process feels meditative or therapeutic. And many times people thank me for being so patient with them, but it’s not patience, it’s presence. Because you aren’t taking any longer than you are supposed to, to learn something new. The newness of pottery, but also the unlearning of harmful norms that have been put in place purposefully: norms that keep us distanced from our natural creative power.
For others, it’s a more subtle shift. Your body language changes. The way you look at things and talk to me changes. It’s a softening… Your shoulders relax more often. Your breathing slows. I hear you exhale deeply once or twice, releasing tension and coaching yourself. Your hands hold less of a charge. I can feel them go from brittle and tense to a little more at ease.
Sometimes, the process doesn’t help you settle at all… it brings stuff up. Clay is not a one-way street to feeling good – it’s a material with rich, deep history, with infinite wisdom. And wisdom can unearth hard things to face.
All of this is why I keep running Waveform. Why my #1 goal is to make clay more accessible to people – both emotionally, and financially. This is why art spaces need to feel inclusive and safe. In a time where money and power fuel systems that steamroll our spirits, we are powerful. We are capable. Visitors come to Waveform come in thinking they are limited in some way, and every time I see people meet challenges, shift, and excel. That is so inspiring to witness. It keeps me believing in our collective capacity to create, connect and grow.
All this to say, THANK YOU for being so effing cool, Waveformies. Seriously. People who visit my studio are considerate, curious, funny and real. Odds are, if you’re still reading this, you got vulnerable in my space. You honored yourself, the material, the studio, and me. I hope you know how powerful you are, and how much your energy can ripple out and positively impact your circle, your community, and our world.
Thinking about moving
I have been thinking of moving Waveform a second time. I would love a space that can accommodate my kiln, and glazing. I would love a ground floor, with an ADA bathroom and a lobby.
When I moved out of the garage two years ago in April of 2024, it felt like I was a hermit crab, eager (desperate?) for a new home. The walls of my shell were painfully tight on my growing body, and I needed out. I was sad to leave, but I knew completely that it was necessary. I had left for a vacation in late February that year craving a break (hmm, I see a pattern here!), and when I returned to more rain and clammy concrete in the garage, I was done. I looked at a few spaces and the moment I stepped into the loft in Suite T and 951 Aileen, I felt lighter, brighter and ready. Full speed ahead. Three weeks later, it took six hours and one van to move, and the next day class was in session!
This time is different. Instead of a cranky hermit crab, I feel like a third grader in my favorite light up shoes. The ones with sparkly accents and a beloved, relatable My Little Pony character gracing the sides. I love my shoes. I’ve taken big risks in them, shown them off to friends and loved ones who have appropriately oooed and aaahed. Everyone loves the shoes, including me. They make me want to dance, strut, climb and run. But my toes are growing and my feet are changing… and the shoes are a little too small. Nothing major, but they are undeniably tight. And I’m grown enough to know that they will only get tighter. So each time I put them on, I know it’s special. I savor them, I make it count.
I love sharing the space at 951 Aileen with you all so much. I have poured so much time, energy and love into every square inch. And community helped me, so generously, to make the space a reality. People I barely knew came to hang shelves because they thought it sounded fun and they wanted to support a fellow artist. Regulars from the garage years stopped by, and 100 little tasks later we had a working fan, air purifier, countertop and hooks for hanging your stuff. A friend lent me her dad’s truck for the move! My colleague and mentor Matt came over and taught me how to build furniture.
After two years, the space is charged with the energy of thousands of people. Folks who showed up to tinker, build, clean and dream – and folks who came in to spend quality time with clay, and with themselves.
I find myself savoring…
Quiet moments when the sunlight from the skylights pour over students working on the wheel. Light and clay together, and hands.
A soft breeze from the window at our backs, feet firmly planted as we feel the spin of water and earth.
Surprised laughter, or a gasp of frustration. A neighbor commiserates. Emotions moving and flowing, with cause and effect.
Sitting around the art table, scattered with tools and clay and sculptures, sometimes in comfortable silence (when do we get to do that with each other?) or chatting about art, music, shows, favorite cafes.
I could kick and scream and refuse to take the shoes off. A memory just surfaced: once, when I was little and didn’t want my parents to leave the house, I hid my mother’s shoes in the pantry. I thought, no shoes, no excursion. They have to stay. I pretended I didn’t know where they were… but my parents eventually found them. I am grown now, and instead of shoes dictating my behavior, I need to think instead about the power of my feet.
What do I need to get where I want to go? How can I clear space for my intuition, so that when I do shed my skin and slide into new digs, I am comfortable, with room to grow?
As I continue to search for the right space (it’s proving a long process and a bit of a rollercoaster), my hope is to stay close to Oakland, and find a spot that has room for the studio to grow and evolve. Instead of a cranky hermit crab desperate for a new shell, I am hoping to approach this next step with the clarity of someone looking for the right pair of shoes, taking time to try things on, go for walks, dream a little and then take another leap of faith.
