Shaping Clay, Shaping Self: What a God Taught Me in Athens

I wasn’t looking for a spiritual moment when I signed up for a sculpture workshop in Athens. I just thought it would be something cool and different—get my hands dirty, make something, maybe feel a bit closer to ancient Greece. I never expected that a lump of Cretan clay and a half-day in a sunlit studio would quietly, and powerfully, reshape the way I move through life.

It all started in a tucked-away studio, not far from the pulse of Athens but far enough to feel like stepping out of time. The space had that lived-in silence of creative work—walls dusted with fine clay, wooden tables bearing the nicks and scars of past projects, and shelves lined with half-finished faces. A Hermes here, a disarmed warrior there. And among them, quietly resting on a stand, the very armor pieces modeled for the Assassin’s Creed Odyssey game. The sculptors who brought virtual Sparta to life now stood before us in the flesh.

We began by touching the tools—chisels, wire loops, scrapers. There’s something intimate about handling tools that haven’t changed all that much since Pheidias sculpted the gods for the Parthenon. The weight, the shape, the intent—they demand presence. One of the instructors, Nikos, gave us a short but rich introduction to ancient methods: lost-wax casting, stone carving, the golden section. He talked about how symmetry wasn’t just about beauty, but about truth.

Then came the clay. Not just any clay—Cretan clay, earthy and reddish like the soil of Knossos, soft in your hands but stubborn in the best way. We were going to sculpt the face of Hermes, messenger of the gods. A fitting choice, I thought, for a workshop that was turning out to be a conversation—between past and present, hand and material, self and myth.

The act of sculpting is deceptively simple. Pinch here, smooth there. But it pulls you inward. As I worked, the noise of the outside world dissolved. I wasn’t thinking about deadlines, emails, or even what time it was. I was watching cheekbones emerge from clay. I was feeling for the curve of a nose. I was learning how to see. Not glance. Not skim. See.

Nikos came by often, not correcting so much as guiding. “Let the form show you where it wants to go,” he said. That phrase stuck. I didn’t quite understand it at the time. But I nodded anyway. Later, it would come back to me in a very different context.

When we paused for a short break, we gathered in a small side room where ancient wine cups lined the shelves, and someone poured a bit of retsina. We talked about how, in ancient Greece, art wasn’t separate from life. It wasn’t a hobby or a luxury. It was a dialogue with the divine. A way of embodying what you couldn’t speak with words.

Back at my station, my Hermes began to look—well, like a Hermes only a mother could love. But it had a spark. A presence. I wasn’t proud of the symmetry, but I was proud of the energy. And when I finally laid down my tools, there was this moment of quiet satisfaction. Not pride exactly. More like communion.

It’s funny. I came away from that day with more than a clay souvenir. I came away with a new way of seeing the world. The Greek way of thinking that seeps into your bones when you mold clay with ancient hands echoing behind you.

There’s a kind of megethos—a sense of proportion—that they lived by. Not just mathematically, but morally, spiritually. They believed in harmony. That everything—your body, your home, your speech, your actions—should reflect balance. Not perfection. Balance. That’s a word that’s followed me home.

In my daily life, I find myself pausing more. Letting form show me where it wants to go. Whether it’s a difficult email I need to write, a tense conversation, or just the layout of furniture in my apartment. I think more in terms of flow now. Of coherence.

And then there’s patience. Sculpting teaches you that not everything yields instantly. Sometimes the clay resists. Sometimes your fingers fumble. But you keep shaping. You breathe. You try again. That’s something I now carry with me when my kids push my buttons, or when my plans go sideways. I think of Hermes—mischievous, clever, always in motion—and I smile.

The Greeks had a word for the excellence in doing a thing well—aretē. It wasn’t about applause. It was about fulfilling the nature of the act. Sculpting taught me that even an amateur can touch aretē if they approach something with care, presence, and intent.

So yes, I came to Athens for the ruins, the food, the sea. But I left with a face I shaped from clay, a quiet philosophy stitched into my days, and a humble reminder that the gods are not only found in temples—but sometimes, in the small acts of creation we dare to undertake with our own two hands.

And that, perhaps, is what traveling really is. Not the journey, as they say—but the person you become along the way.

Key Takeaways:

• Sculpting is a meditative, transformative process. The act of shaping clay draws you into a deep state of presence and awareness, helping quiet the noise of everyday life.

• Ancient Greek craftsmanship carries timeless wisdom. Techniques like the golden section and lost-wax casting reflect a philosophy of balance, proportion, and harmony—both aesthetic and moral.

• Greek thought values harmony over perfection. The traditional Greek mindset embraces balance (megethos) in all aspects of life, not just in art but in behavior and relationships.

• Art is inseparable from daily life in Greek culture. In ancient Greece, art was not an isolated activity—it was a way to connect with the divine, express the soul, and shape identity.

• Simple experiences can lead to deep personal growth. What began as a casual workshop led to new life habits: more patience, a slower pace, better listening, and a desire for intentional living.

• Greek philosophy can have practical impact today. Concepts like aretē (virtue through excellence) and “let the form show you where it wants to go” offer valuable guidance in everyday decisions.

• Travel becomes meaningful when it changes who you are. The most valuable souvenirs are internal—new perspectives, habits, and ways of thinking that shape you long after the trip is over.