For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to try pottery—specifically throwing on a wheel. There was something about it that called to me in a way other arts and crafts never quite did. So many creative outlets are rooted in sight: color choices, visual precision, stepping back to “see” the work. As someone who is blind, that has often made creativity feel just slightly out of reach. I wanted something tactile, something that lived in my hands rather than my eyes.
Taking the Leap
Earlier this year, I finally took the leap and signed up for pottery classes. What I didn’t fully appreciate at the time was just how steep—and rewarding—the learning curve would be.
A Shared Journey of Learning Through Touch
My instructor has been a ceramist for over 50 years. She is deeply skilled, intuitive, and thoughtful—and she is also beginning to lose her eyesight herself. Before me, she had never taught a blind or low-vision student. So in many ways, this journey has been a shared one. We are both learning how to communicate through touch, how to describe shape and form without relying on visual cues, and how to trust the language of hands and pressure and movement. It has been humbling and meaningful for both of us.
Lessons From the Wheel
The wheel itself still feels a bit like magic to me. You start with what is essentially a heavy, unremarkable lump of clay. But once the wheel begins to spin and your hands settle in, something shifts. The clay responds to every choice you make. Where you place your fingers, how firmly you press, whether your hands are steady or rushed—nothing is accidental. Clay doesn’t lie. It records every movement.
Centering the clay alone is a lesson in patience and presence. If your body isn’t grounded, if your breath is shallow or your mind is racing, the clay will wobble and resist. But when you slow down, anchor your elbows, and truly listen with your hands, the clay softens and cooperates. Slowly, a bowl emerges. Or a mug. Or sometimes… a misshapen attempt that teaches you exactly what not to do next time.
Learning Through Failure
There have been plenty of flops. Collapsed walls. Pieces that felt promising and then suddenly failed. Moments of frustration where my hands didn’t do what my mind intended.
I am nowhere near where I want to be yet, and I know I still have so much to learn. But somehow, even the failures feel meaningful. Each one carries information. Each one leaves me a little more fluent in the language of clay.
Grounding, Presence, and the Body
What has surprised me most is how deeply grounding this process has been. When I am at the wheel, there is no room for spiraling thoughts or anxiety. The clay demands my full attention. My hands, my breath, the hum of the wheel—everything narrows into the present moment. For someone who lives with a lot of anxiety, this has been a gift. Pottery doesn’t allow me to live in my head; it invites me fully into my body.
In Love With the Process
I don’t know exactly where this pottery journey will take me. I’m not in a rush to arrive anywhere. Right now, I am simply in love with the process—with the messiness, the learning, the quiet triumph of pulling up a clean wall or shaping a form that feels just right beneath my fingers.
Creativity as Possibility
For the first time in a long time, creativity feels expansive instead of limiting. It feels like possibility. And it all begins with my hands in the clay.