FROM THE CLAY

Tu Tangata, Issue 27, 1 December 1985, Page 48

FROM THE CLAY

The last few days had been a new experience for her this working with the clay. Strange yet satisfying this kneading, dividing, joining, rolling, squeezing, moulding of forms from her mind. But sometimes the shapes that emerged had little to do with those she had envisaged, and she was content to allow them to grow within the palms of her hands until they felt complete. Then the careful smoothing with the fingers, with the small knife blade, and the setting aside in a safe place to dry a little. The polishing then in small, gentle, overlapping strokes until a soft satin sheen replaced the dullness of the raw clay. The unbidden surfacing

of memories of the same soft feel of a tiny, firm body now forever still... Push the memories away. Bury them with talk and laughter and preparation of food. Back to the clay pot now dry to the touch for the final, long, painstaking burnish. Take the beautifully polished, fine-grained pebble. Use it over and over to stroke every portion of the surface of the pot. Again and again. The rhythm of the stroking so soothing, pushing way back the grief lurking in her mind. The left hand ever-so-slowly revolving the clay as the right hand firmly and evenly stroked until the gleam was just right Such satisfaction in the making, the holding, the looking.

It was some time during the third day that another idea came. This was to be quite large. The size of a dinner plate. It would be round, and as thick as her little finger. In the middle she would scratch the outline of a fish. She began the work. Later, as a final touch, very carefully she wrote round the edge TE IKA O WAIPOUA, and leant back to smile at it, pleased with her effort. Her cousin moved to stand beside her. “Why don’t you carve your fish? It would look beautiful hanging on your wall." “Me? I can’t carve! You. You do it for me?” “If that's what you want.” “Oh, yes." And so. under the chisel and the skilled fingers, the fish became a shape of great beauty a feast for the eyes. Now it was the fourth day. The kiln had been built of loose bricks. The objects she had made laid with those of the others on alternate layers of sawdust. On top of all a fire was kindled, watched until the sawdust was well alight, and a sheet of corrugated iron placed on top and weighted down with bricks. It would be many hours before the first layer of pottery would emerge from the sawdust ash.

“Party time!” came the call. “Come on. Clean up. Grab the food. Grab the drink. Come out to my place!" What a great night that was. Much talk, many stories, and the laugher! Ripples that ran into each other growing into great waves overwhelming all round that crowded table in the old friendly kitchen, rising ceiling high and finally rolling out door and window into the cool night air. So for a few more hours her grief was submerged, pushed away from conscious thought. Midnight time for the first opening of the kiln, to retrieve the work from the upper layers of charred sawdust. Two carloads of her companions left the gathering to attend to the kiln. She stayed on. comforted by the warmth of friendship round the solid old table. Besides there was still a little wine good for burying unwanted memories. She, together with the rest of the stragglers, returned after the second opening and careful sifting amongst the ashes. All but she, slept through 'til dawn and beyond. The wine wasn’t working anymore, and the pain of her memories rose, threatening to suffocate her in thickening clouds of misery. Sleep was impossible. Quietly she searched for more wine. None. Just beer. It would have to do. She drank was still drinking when the others awoke but oblivion remained distant. Today was THAT day the anniversary of that moment of incomprehension, of utter disbelief, when she found her baby lifeless. The anguish rose within her. but she fought back; helping with the food, with the cleaning, trying to keep her pain under control.

Through a fog of misery and alcohol she heard her name. They were calling her to the kiln. “Look! Look at your fish!” They crowded around where it sat cooling. Oh. it was beautiful! The chiselled detail flowing so cleanly, so decisively. There were cries of admiration surrounding her then one voice alone, “There’s something else!” It was true. Above the carving, oxygen pentrating the sawdust had left a curved smear of beige and soft apricot orange duplicating clearly the head of her fish. Parts of the K and A added details of the mouth, and perfectly positioned for the eye was her O. Barely discernible apricot spots gave form of the upper back. It was like her fish and yet it was not. Her fish was so clearly defined; this other so elusive, so shadowy, almost as if it were the spirit of the first. Suddenly she wanted very much to keep this plate, but tradition said she musn’t. Thoughtfully she went inside, to an older woman who knew nothing of the reason for her misery nor of the fish and its shadow. “You know that some people say you must give away the first of anything you make?”

“Yes?” “Tell me. What do you think?” And the other said (surprising herself). “I don’t think that what you are to give can be held in the hand. Instead you are to take back to your people the knowledge and skills you have gained in these few days. The fish you must keep. It is for you.” Only then did the young woman show the other her fish and ask “What do you see?” , Some time later, her cousin, knowing everything, went quietly to the older woman. He explained all that it was necessary to explain, asked gently, “Would you say prayers for us? To help my whanaunga?” And so the group gathered in the workroom until all who

should be were there, and those who should not, had discerned so and left. All sat quietly, and as the older bowed her head in a silent mind-message to Him for the right words, a lovely feeling of serenity began to prevade the room. She stood, moved so all could see and hear her, opened her mouth and the words flowed forth. First came the reason for the gathering, for only a few knew it. Then came the direct message: “You must forgive yourself. You must not blame yourself for the loss of your babe. Let the guilt go. Let the child go too. You had him for four months. Treasure the memory and let him g 0...” The sharing: “1 know the pain of a little one gone. And there must be others here too with the same knowledge. I know the longing for the touch of the small arms clinging, the warmth, the feel, the smell of a tiny body...” Directly again: “But, you have life. It is the greatest gift of all. Do not waste it. Let go the guilt. Love your child and let him go. Keep the memories and he will be part of you. Live your life.”

Finally came the voicing of the words to comfort the mother, the plea that the child should be surrounded, protected by the Light of His Love and handed into His care. For a timeless moment of pure love all those present shared the burden of grief, harmony so apparent it could almoset be touched seemed to flow around each. Nor did it matter that not all understood that if the mother could release her child to His care, her sense of guilt must go too at last she would be able to forgive herself. The sharing was what mattered. The women, wet-eyed, surrounded her and sang; then one by one gave her a great comforting hug. The men followed, many wet-eyed also, enveloping her in their strong arms. Awareness of the physical world

returned, coffee was made and drunk, talk and laughter resumed with the knowledge that sharing gave the strength to endure until the grief diminished. And so it was that the fish stayed with the one who had formed it from clay, it's shadowy counterpart swirling above it almost like a glowing memory....