The Dot, Dot, Dot

I had a friend tell me once that questions that start with “what” are really safety masks for questions that begin with “why.”

‘What are you doing?’ oftentimes is a question that is really asking “Why are you doing that?” or, “Why do you do it this way?” I think about this thought from a friend sometimes, but not often enough. Sometimes asking myself “What am I doing?” Is really an easier, if not more panic-ridden question then “Why are you doing this?” Sometimes it’s safer to remain in the static energy of panic, than it is to wonder about all the “why’s” with a fat mug of steaming coffee and awkward silences with myself. I wonder if other people can relate to this feeling too. The “what” questions seem quicker to answer, like ripping off band aids for the busy-bodied people. Just cauterize the wound already, am I right?

The “why” questions feel like drawing blood, putting a slide of it under a microscope, and really figuring out why something is in you. This comes at the cost of there being no end, a scary ellipsis of inconclusive results, and a rapidly growing spider web of whys.

What am I doing? That’s easy. I’m making little, mostly and hopefully pretty, ceramic things with my hands.

Why am I doing it? I like to tell stories. I like to preserve and collect stories.

I had a teacher who told me to keep a list of things I wanted to do in my life in my wallet. When I finished something, she told me to make a new list, filter it and see what I wanted to keep, and take out what wasn’t for me anymore. 

“Then put it back in your wallet, and look at it every once in a while,” she said, swinging her feet off her desk. I loved her because even when she was teaching, she felt so wrapped up in her own story. What a world hers must be to live in, I often thought. Who cares about this class? How did I take a little bit of her with me?

Ten years ago, I wrote a list that looked like it was afraid of asking for what it wanted. The list basically shook itself without my help, it read so scared. It looked like I had already decided that I would take the crumbs to my own goals. What is kind of funny now, is seeing how each crumb on that list was actually an ambiguous map on my toast plate.

Pottery, coffee shops, maybe a book, travel led me to friends, stories, a craft that hotwires both sides of my brain together, and happy triggers— the lesser talked about of the triggers.

I make tiny, pretty, warm things because I want to keep the stories on me, in the rooms I live in, the places I go to be a part of…and I want to keep adding to their ceramic stories. I desire each piece to feel like a long ellipsis— a dot, dot, dot— that people can collect stories with.

But who can say? Sometimes, when you get to the bottom of a “why,” you realize at the deepest depth of the well, you just like doing something. There might not be anything stronger than that. Maybe you just like wearing something. Who can say.