One of my more peaceful times spent in the workshop was when I centered a leather-hard vase on my wheelhead then set the flat side of my small burnishing stone to the surface of the stiffened, semi-moist clay. Sitting at my wheel, breathing easily as the afternoon sun beaming through the window displayed the radiance of aligned clay particles forming underneath the smooth stone. Slowly raising the stone up the side of the vase, then down again, flipping the stone over to use its convex shape to reach into the curve of the pot's neck, flipping it over again and lightening my pressure to work the lip of the pot smooth.
I knew that stone as well as the unsighted knows a lover's face. I think about holding it against a pot and I experience that moment again, like a smell-awakened memory.
I loved that rock.