While the World Burns: the quiet necessity of making

Dear Laurie,

The world is going to shit.

Roxy

Dear Roxy,

Thank goodness. 

Without shit we’d have no fertiliser and therefore no growth, personal or otherwise. 

Isn't it odd that something we view as so disgusting could be so necessary? It’s interesting to consider the many different types of shit and appreciate that some of it is more manageable than others. A well-formed once-a-day shit is seldom a problem whereas diarrhoea is more inconvenient. Then you’ve got dysentery, which is potentially fatal shit. But for most of us it's just run-of-the-mill everyday shit. A bit of a mixed bag, depending on what you've consumed. Which, I guess, begs the question: what did you eat?

Most of us would never put a rotten chicken in our mouths, but we don't seem to have a problem putting one in our minds. As someone with a ferocious appetite for things that are bad for me, I'm often the victim of my own gluttony. As with too many beers, the news can make you ill if you overindulge. I'm writing this today with a hangover of my own, having wilfully consumed a poisonous mind diet of war zones and AI doomscrolling. I feel like I've spent the last forty-eight hours searching the internet for things to make myself sick on. But to counter that, and seeing that it's a warm spring day with a good stiff breeze, I've managed to get two loads of washing done and hung on the line, which makes today, at least, feel a little more manageable. 

Perhaps strangely, potting, crafting or art making more generally has surprising digestive properties that can transform life's maladies, or at least neutralise the most ominous parts. I do often feel a bit funny going into the pottery and making some lighthearted or silly pots while the world appears to be on fire, which brings to mind Nero and the question: Am I just potting while the world burns? The answer is yes, I am. I am just potting. Because potting helps me reconcile the tragedy and beauty of life. Potting helps me tread water in a big, uncertain ocean in which I have very little power or control. Potting helps me float on my back, look at the sky, consider my options and not feel like I'm drowning for a moment. 

There is a misconception that potters pot to make pottery. And although there is a practical truth to this, it belies a greater purpose. I think that potting is closer to gardening than any other practice. It is a way to reconnect with the Earth from which we all arise. A way to ground ourselves and seek comfort from our great ancestral mother. A chance to dip our hands into the shit of the past and realise that we are just another layer in the almighty longdrop of time. 

My pottery studio is a walled garden in an emotionally undulating universe. A lifeboat. Like meditation, my physical practice is a lifeline to calmer understanding and a better night's sleep. I can’t sit still and breathe for 15 minutes a day but I can make a mug with a dick on it and chuckle to myself. And that is my antidote for the shit of the world. If I was a doctor, Roxy, I’d give you a small handful of clay and say, ‘Pinch a pot and call me in the morning.’

XL

*Fire in Rome by Hubert Robert (1785)