"The project's through, Cup thirty-six
A haiku of leaves, and winter sticks."
The tale of 36 tea-bowls reached an end.
Of the first telling.
Now I must follow through with tea, a show, and delivery to those that have chosen bowls for themselves. The bowls will fade away, in time, in some fashion. Some day in the future I'll sit talking to a friend, and he or she will ask me, "Do you remember this?" and I'll be shown one of these fragments of fired earth.
And I'll remember . . . I'll experience time!
Thank-you all for helping me tell the story. You helped me examine my work. Imperfections. The reasons I make it. The people I make it for.
By reading this you helped tell it. By skimming you helped tell it. By choosing, you told it and by not choosing you helped tell it. Like a kiln fire, no matter what you did you played a role.
Many who wanted cups tried to leave comments but were unable or unwilling to navigate past the text verification box that Google puts up. For this I apologize. Looking back I realize that this was a hurdle . . . life does have hurdles.
This last cup is given to a dear cousin, M. Findlay, an artist, and writer of haiku poetry.
Here is a sample of her work:
in the background
a robin talks to me
as I read my book
We make what we make because we must, or because we choose to. Art may play a role in either what must be done. or what is chosen to be done.
We don't require birdsong, and neither do other birds. Birds sing because they're able. We write poetry because we're able, and if we make pots we do so because we're able.
Having to, or wanting, has nothing to do with the supposed art of it. So the ritual of birdsong has much to teach us,.
If you can sing, sing.
