A few months ago, when I had reached a point with pottery that I was starting to feel some confidence about it, I remembered a photo that I had seen at my grandparents’ house when I was a child. It was my grandfather working at a potter’s wheel. I remembered the details of the image itself in the gauzy way that we often remember things from early childhood — the way that confuses one Christmas or summer vacation with another and never feels quite solid. But the feeling I recalled about the image did feel solid — I distinctly remembered feeling awed that my grandfather had been able to make things from clay with his own hands. The idea of a potter’s wheel seemed so grand and special to me. I had never even seen one, let alone tried using one. And I remember thinking, “One day, I want to do that, too.” And I forgot all about that feeling — until I had done it.