Crafting a Life in Bali
The Potter’s Wheel
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Clay spun beneath my fingers, slick and stubborn, the wheel humming as Wayan’s laugh filled the small workshop. I’d come to Bali for personal growth, seeking Ubud’s calm after a year of chaos back home—job stress, broken plans, a life that felt unmoored. Can your hands shape more than just clay? I wondered, pressing harder, the wet earth resisting then yielding. Wayan, a potter with gray hair and wise eyes, sat beside me, his hands guiding mine, his patience a quiet force.
I’d arrived in Ubud a week earlier, the town a swirl of green—rice fields rolling beyond temples, scooters buzzing through narrow streets. My guesthouse was simple—a bed, a mosquito net, a porch overlooking a lotus pond—and I’d settled in, craving a reset. That first day, I’d wandered into Wayan’s workshop, drawn by the clink of tools and the earthy smell of clay. He’d waved me over, no questions, and handed me a lump of mud. “Make,” he said, and I did, my hands fumbling, the wheel spinning too fast. The vase collapsed, a soggy mess, but he laughed, clapping my shoulder. “Again,” he said, and I tried, the hours slipping away.
Days found a rhythm—mornings biking past rice fields, the air humid and sweet, afternoons with Wayan, molding clay into shapes that grew less lopsided. He taught me to center the clay, his voice calm—“Slow, slow”—and I learned, my hands steadying, my mind quieting. One day, he took me to a temple, its stone gates carved with gods, and we placed offerings—flowers, rice, incense—his prayers a soft chant. I joined, awkward but earnest, the air thick with devotion, and felt a shift, a connection to something bigger.
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A temple ceremony, me in a sarong kneeling beside Wayan, placing flowers on a stone altar, gamelan players in the background, their music rising like a wave.
Nights brought gamelan music drifting from the village, and I’d sit with Wayan on his porch, sipping tea, listening to his stories—of rice harvests, of spirits in the trees, of balance as life’s art. My vases improved, their curves smoother, and I felt it in me too—a balance forming, a steadiness I’d lost. I sketched them in my journal, clay-stained fingers smudging the pages, the rice fields a backdrop in pencil and ink.
On my last day, we fired my best vase in his kiln, the heat shimmering as it hardened. It emerged imperfect—dents, a wonky rim—but perfect to me, a piece of Bali I’d shaped. Wayan clapped, his grin wide, and we sat with it between us, the sun sinking over the fields
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Leaving Ubud, I packed the vase in my bag, bubble-wrapped and precious. Bali had crafted me, one turn of the wheel at a time, a journey of growth rooted in clay and quiet moments.
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