Kimberlee K.

One of my goals this year was to take a ceramics class.

I took ceramics as an elective in high school, and to fulfill a 3D art requirement in college, and enjoyed both, so I’ve often thought about finding a way to get back into it.

And since goal setting is the easiest way to convince myself to do something—who doesn’t love checking an item off a to-do list? —I added it the docket this year, and in July I signed up for a pottery wheel class.

On my first day, for the full two hours straight, every single one of my pieces flopped. And though it was a little disheartening, even with the advice given to me by the girl sitting at the neighboring wheel—advice her own mom had shared with her—be patient, it’s hard, I was mostly amazed by how fast the time had gone by.

What had I been thinking about for the last two hours?

Had I been worried about anything? No.

Stressed? No.

I’d been locked in on my clay, my hands messy and my mind clear, and everything else had just *melted away.*

So when friends and family asked me if I liked the class, I beamed! I nodded! I used a lot of facial expression exclamation points! And I counted down the days until my next class.

And then, I made a bowl.

Two bowls. Three bowls!

And again, two hours flew by.

What magic! I thought. What fun!

At my third class however, something changed.

While the teacher was still encouraging, my fellow students were still kind, and my familiarity with the studio had only grown stronger, my mindset had suddenly shifted.

Without warning, my brain switched off the fun, the creativity, and the novelty of learning something new, and switched on the need to be perfect, to get everything right, to no longer be a student that’s allowed to ask questions but a professional who does not bother a single person with her ignorance.

And so my seat at the wheel was no longer an escape but a stage. I felt like everyone was looking at me, expecting perfection, or that everyone was looking at me, pointing out imperfection.

I started to have dreams about ceramics—I wish I was kidding—worrying about when I was going to finish my pieces, about my teacher shaking his head in disappointment like, hmm, I thought you’d be better than this.

So when I walked out the door on the last night of class I felt nothing but relief. And when a friend asked again what I thought of ceramics, I said, “I don’t know. I don’t know if I liked it or not.”  Because I still felt like I was in fight or flight mode.

This, I recognize, is anxiety. It is perfectionism. It is holding myself to an unfair standard. It is bowing to the “but not you” clarification my mind likes to make.

The one that hear me tell my friends, “It’s completely okay for you not to be perfect!” while the words echo back, “but not you.”

“It’s okay for you not to know everything about everything!”  (But not you.)

Because YOU, my brain says, you do have to be perfect. You do have to know everything.

Everyone else has room to make mistakes, but not you.

Thankfully, since I’ve known myself for over 30 years now, I know that this is my go-to defense mechanism when I feel like a beginner at something. When I feel out of control. When I feel vulnerable to criticism (constructive or otherwise).

QUICK! My mind says, we’re not perfect at this, quit while we’re ahead!! Quit before someone figures it out!! Quit before you get in someone’s way with your imperfection! Quit before people point and laugh!

QUIT, I BEG.

So I signed up for another ceramics class in protest.

It was a hand building class, so there was no wheel, and on our first day we made pinch pots. I sat at my table for the entire two hours, pinching clay into cylindrical(ish) shapes, aware that they weren’t perfect, but pushing through regardless.

The next week we learned how to coil, and the next we learned how to mold. And on the last day—just like my wheel class—we glazed our finished pieces before sending them off to the kiln for a final firing.

And as I sat there, cleaning up my glaze, I realized: I like this!

I let out a sigh of relief. Because I’d done it! I’d climbed the mountain of perfectionism and rolled down the other side into the valley of curiosity and inspiration. I was dreaming up things to make! Excited once again by the possibilities. And I was sad that the class was over because I’d finally landed back where I started, the place where I could see with clear eyes that it’s all just for fun.

In a way the experience has made me appreciate the pieces I made even more, because they represent more than just little victories of the craft. They represent a perseverance to keep making—to create for creating’s sake—and the courage to try something new. They are the physical embodiment of me sticking my tongue out at anxiety and doing the thing anyway.

So if you’re in the market for a new hobby, might I suggest two things:

1. Be patient, it’s hard.
2. Climb the mountain before you quit.

It’s worth it.