I have mud in my hair, and I am happy.

Today was a good, good day. Today was a gift.

Today, I happened on a pottery shop tucked between two mountains, away from the violent noise and bustle of Hilllbilly Las Vegas. It smelled like garden soil, cool and wet and rich. There were beautiful things everywhere: vats of sumptuous slip, mounds of earth, greenware, and gorgeous finished urns and bowls and cookware and sculpture. I watched an apprentice work for a little while.

And then this kind apprentice offered up a lump of clay and a wheel and tools and let me throw a little pot. Whoa. I mean ... dude. Just wow.

I didn't pay any attention to what I was making, and I don't even remember what it looked like, and I don't care in the slightest. I can't really explain how this makes me feel. It's so much deeper and more complex than that I had fun throwing a little pot, which I did. Working with clay, with the very earth under our feet that sustains our life, caressing it, inhaling its fragrance, opening to it and letting it nurture and cleanse me, building with it, pouring a bit of my soul into it, into the earth—this is when I feel most intimate, most connected with the Great Creative Spirit. It is sacramental for me. If you're an artist, you probably understand what I mean.

Separated from this art form that is so profoundly life giving to me, I wither. I work in metal and I draw, and I love it, but if we have vocations in heaven, I'll be the village potter. Look for a woman with no fingernails and mud in her hair who smells like garden soil; that'll be me. Stop by and I'll make you a mug.

Today, I got to play in the clay. It was a good, good day.