hope (one hundred two)

hope (one hundred two)
Originally uploaded by Bridgman Pottery
I feel like one of those kindergarten mice on an exercise wheel- going and going and going and getting nowhere. Not that I'm nowhere, but I have been working like crazy and not feeling like I've got an appropriate (ha!) pile of work to show for it. So. I'm here, I'm hard at work. I'll be at MFM on the 23rd. Etsy restocking isn't happening this week. I painted a bunch of "bonjour" and "good morning" latte cups today. I work on getting pots ready for glazing for about 4 hours this morning and afternoon. This is the first day in, oh, six, that I haven't done a 8-10 hour day. Monday and Tuesday nights I worked until 10 pm. YUCKY. This is not, folks, why most people decide to work for themselves. I will tell you, though, that this is also why most pottery is as expensive as it is. It's because each cup takes about 2 hours of hands-on time, lump of clay to finished product, not counting the 16+ hours of firing and 40+ hours of cooling time.

To top it off, I cannot get my pictures up to blogger and I have to use flickr to do it.  The day's been caca, I tell you.  I am managing to keep up with my photo-a-day, but just barely.  But we're here, breathing, well(ish), together.  That's all that matters in the end.

So. A poem. Not mine.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me

Thank you, Miss Emily.