In the Fik of it

Marvin took the pot, the one that the student was so proud of, and held it up for all to see.  He praised her for the fine craft she’d employed in the kneading of the clay, explained how that work had enabled her to “throw” a pot with such thin yet strong characteristics.  She was proud of the work, proud of herself, clearly enjoying the notoriety being displayed in front of the other pottery students. He went on to describe the beauty that she’d brought forth from a small lump of clay, went on to highlight the glazing, the gentle slope of the neck, the fine characteristics of the handle, the gentle coloring towards the base and overall composition; the student basking in the glow of her skill.  Marvin was so enamored by the work, so driven to find each beautiful facet of the pot and explain it with forensic detail in the manner that only a teacher could appreciate, so engaged he was that he held it high for all to see it’s greatness. Then he let go of it.

I’ve spent the better part of a week with Bethany, caring for her while my wife and son take a much-needed vacation out west, far away from the typical day-to-day actions that we’ve followed for the last 16 years.  With my wife away, I knew what to expect from Bethany; sleepless nights, overwhelming bouts with obsessive-compulsion, seizures, diapers and wet sheets.  I assumed hours and hours of redirecting her self-injurious behavior and enduring her aggression; twisted fingers, pinched nipples (mine), punched windpipe (mine also).  What I got was deep insight into the personality of a remarkable young woman who seems to be oddly embodied in an awkward package. Our evenings were calm, our mornings were somewhat orderly, and our interactions were even “precious”.  Granted, mornings had their share of surprise roll-outs ; those “ohmygod” moments when you’re changing the brief on a standing 17 year old who you thought only had a wet one.  That flat thud from so