Mudbabies

By Michele Fry, © 1996

 

(Dedicated to my niece, Jennifer, who spent many summer weekends watching me throw pots on my back porch and showing interest in my craft.)

 

Aunt Lucy was a potter.  She was always making pots

from hunks of clay she dug around her home.

I watched her make her miracles.

She’d sit and spin that mud –

first a cylinder would form, then

a belly, neck, and collar would appear.

Lucy’s hands and her wheel always worked

as a team to sketch a spiral, fluid-feeling form.

 

I never guessed her difficulty dealing with the limits

of a homespun clay  –  never knew whether it was Lucy’s

predetermined WILL that brought a pretty fluted vase forth

from a shapeless muddy base,  or if each piece appeared

from some desire of its own.  She wouldn’t tell, and

I still wonder, “Did she know?”

 

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We never had a clue what might turn up in our Christmas stockings,

either, with a note in Lucy’s wildly flourished hand, which read:

“When you get to know this mug (or bowl), I hope you’ll like it

just as well as I do . . .  but if not, please feel free to bring

my Mudbaby home, and choose another you might

 like to

have and hold.”

 

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Gossips in the family thought Aunt Lucy was a showoff,

or a self-promoting bitty who didn’t give quite fully –

but I knew her as a mentor, a tender, doting

Mother, who loved her family fully

AND her Mudbaby offspring, and

wanted both to share a cozy home.

 

Lucy told me “Potting is as basic as the sea . . .

each wave hits the shore a little differently.”  She

thought an oversized mug which wasn’t popped from a mold

and duplicated a hundred-thousand fold, captured something of the spirit

of Creation.   Offered food for the Soul’s contemplation.   Once when I complained

her  “matched sets”  weren’t a perfect match, she quipped:  “There’s no two

leaves alike on any tree. If that’s good enough for God, it’s good for me!”

 

I think  Lucy felt a call to  add some texture to our lives.

She hoped her offerings,   rightly placed,   might

draw us back to natural ways; that evidence

of human hands could radiate a ray of

comfort when we felt ourselves

displaced, and keep us

thoughtfully

aware

of our uniqueness.

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And I do swear I feel “acceptance” pulsing through her wares, as though the simple melodies I heard her humming when she glazed, tended kilns or cleaned up spills, were imbedded deeply there.

Despite her love for design and great attention to detail, Lucy’s comfort with the

accidental warp, multi-textured forms, undulating rims, even little cracks

and dings, somehow caress my daunted spirits with her care.

But then, I saw her put it there.

The Lotus Club

by Michele Fry © 2000

The lotus is a special flower
that bears much contemplation.
Orientals see it as
the symbol for Creation


.How ‘bout we choose the lotus as
the symbol of true friendship,
Inviting to “The Lotus Club”
all those who share this kinship:

Who, floating on the pond of life,
with petals slow unfolding,
We gather up as much of light
each day as we can hold, and


With anchored center rising wisely
always towards its goal,
When petals finally open wide,
‘twill display inner gold.


And waft the sweetest fragrance out
to all who paddle through,

Inspiring the rest of us
to make Art of all we do.

Our Motto:  BE ART!

A Teacher's Manifesto

By Michele T. Fry, ã February 1991

An autobiographical poem: I owned, operated and taught in my own Montessori school for 27 years. 
This is the understanding I came to have of what I was teaching. 

 

This school is My Church,

and I am the Pastor of this holy place.

 

This is My Spot on Earth in which to be effective,

the only place on Earth over which I have Dominion.

 

Conceived in Love.

 

Whose Divine Purpose it is

to glorify the Human Spirit

and discipline the mind and body to it’s Will.

 

To be a Friend.

 

To Teach each of my Pupils

the Natural Laws that govern Every Thing;

to tune them in to the Diversity of Truth

and the Vastness of the Universe;

to free them from the Darkness of Superstition;

from Mistrust and Fear of fellow humans;

And to trust Themselves;

to teach the holy art of Gratitude

and celebrate with them the Blessings Of Our Age;

to cultivate that holy mix of

Humility, Personal Power, Empathy and Joy

which resurrects the soul

and frees the heart to feel Compassionate toward Self and Others.

 

To guide them to such discoveries

that they may reach whatever Heights they may aspire to;

take responsibility for the Depths that they explore;

add to the Beauty of this world;

reduce Suffering;

increase Pleasure;

triumph over Adversity and help others do the same;

see the Connectedness of all things;

accept Aloneness and the Great Unknown;

Forgive;

and wherever they are in the vast millieu of Life,

to dance in gratitude with a song on their lips

whose lyrics are simply, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

 

And in the end,

to have each of my pupils come to know

and to Enjoy

the God within Themselves,

and Everything,

and Everyone.

Without Potential

© 1964 (Age 17)

I am a man without Potential
I've got none of that essential
STUFF to show the world.
I've no pride in all the Doings
that all men seem bent on strewing
o're this raged and ragged, stripped and staggered globe.

I've no Motive, nor the Taste
for just living life in Haste
as it seems we're all required to.
And in treatment of my Brethren
no examples seem as Reverent
as I'm told they are . . . . . and should be!

Wish I could charge down a Path
spewing love and venting rath
letting those I trample lick their wounds alone.
Then perhaps I'd give THEM hope
I'd be climbing up the laddar
towards the Virtues OTHERS value.

But, alas, I'm doomed to Caring
and my heart is chained to bearing
all the woes and harsh indignities of Man.
And my tongue gets tied for Trying
and I freeze for fear of Lying.
What if I, too, do not know the Truth?

Those who love me, my how Queer!
For they know not how they seer
my heart to blackened embers.
For they whisper that I'm Empty
when it's only I'm attempting
for a better reasoned way. Where's the way?

If I'm lost and I seem vacant
Truth is this: I am waiting
for a sign that those who teach me
actually know the Proper Pathway.
Doesn't look like it from here
when all I see is fear, selfishness
and contradictions everywhere.

Though you mean no pain, nor scorn me
you don't realize how you've torn me.
I am lost among your Ambiguities!

Written in high school, shocked at the conduct of our church minister who ran off with another man's wife; adults around me who didn't remotely live up to the loving Christian values they preached; and a variety of teachers who played favorites and seemed to enjoy humiliating, with impunity, the students they didn't like.