Finding Beauty in Brokenness

Every Thursday at 6 PM, I found myself in the community center's pottery class,

hands covered in clay, trying to forget the accident that stole my confidence

six months ago. The instructor, Margaret, had this habit of humming old jazz

standards while she worked, her weathered fingers shaping clay like she was coaxing

secrets from the earth. I came here broken, convinced my shaking hands would never

create anything beautiful again. The first few weeks, I could barely center the clay without

it collapsing. Margaret never said much, just placed her steady hands over

mine when the trembling got too bad, guiding the clay back to life. One evening,