The Pomegranate That Wasn’t Mine, and Still Changed Me

I wasn’t looking for a lesson. I just wanted something to do with my hands.

Rhodes was a last-minute decision. I needed sun, silence, and something a little older than my thoughts. I’d spent the morning wandering the stone-paved streets of the Old Town, ducking into shaded courtyards and watching the sea glitter beyond the medieval walls. Somewhere between a glass of souma and the rhythmic clatter of café cutlery, I saw the sign: Pottery Masterclass – Make a Pomegranate. Curious. Simple. I signed up.

The workshop was in a quiet part of the island, not far from the foothills outside the bustle. An open, sunlit space, filled with shelves of vases, bowls, little clay figures that looked like they’d been waiting there for centuries. The air smelled faintly of earth and fire. Our instructor—calm, warm, and clay-smudged in the best possible way—greeted us like old friends. A few others had joined the session, all travelers like me, all quiet at first.

There’s something humbling about sitting at a table with a lump of clay in front of you and being told, “We’ll make a pomegranate today.” It’s not just a fruit here. In Greece, the pomegranate means something. Abundance. Fertility. Renewal. It’s the fruit you smash on New Year’s Day for good luck. It appears in myth, tied to Persephone and the changing seasons. Life, death, return. It’s in the cracks of this land’s very soul.

We started with the basics—shaping, smoothing, building by hand. No wheels, no rush. Just fingers and clay. The act of forming something slowly, attentively, was... unexpected. I could feel my thoughts quiet. My breath slowed. I wasn’t checking my phone. I wasn’t thinking about flights, emails, or anything else. I was just rolling clay between my palms, listening to stories from the instructor about why the pomegranate matters.

One visitor asked why we wouldn't take our own creations home. The answer stayed with me. "Because everything here is shared," she said. "Someone else will carry your work. You’ll carry someone else’s." It struck me as strange at first. Then beautiful. I wasn't making a souvenir—I was stepping into a cycle. A quiet trust between strangers. A gesture that went beyond possession.

Rhodes, like that idea, stays with you long after you leave it. It’s not just beaches and castles. It’s a place where layers of history rest gently atop one another—Hellenistic temples, Byzantine churches, Ottoman minarets, Crusader walls. Everything is connected. Nothing is rushed. The island teaches you—without saying so—to slow down, to look closely, to honor what came before.

As I shaped the crown of my clay fruit, I thought about what I was really doing. Not crafting a perfect object, but surrendering to a process. Letting my fingers speak in a language older than words. There's a rhythm in this country, a deep hum beneath the noise. You feel it when you walk through a village where time seems paused. You feel it when someone offers you a spoonful of glyko tou koutaliou with no reason other than kindness. You feel it in clay.

That afternoon changed more than I expected. Back home, I catch myself pausing before rushing into tasks. I started cooking slower, more intentionally. I speak less, listen more. I’ve stopped needing to “keep” everything—photos, objects, experiences. Some things are better passed along. That pomegranate I made? It sits on a shelf in a stranger’s home, maybe in Germany or Canada or Brazil. And I have one that someone else made, with hands and thoughts I’ll never know. But we’re connected through clay and curiosity.

It’s easy to forget that the things we do with our hands shape our minds. And even easier to forget that sometimes, not keeping something is the greatest form of keeping.

I came to Rhodes with a head full of noise. I left with something better—quiet hands, a slower heart, and a little clay fruit that wasn’t mine but somehow is.

What I took away from shaping clay in Rhodes:

• Greek crafts aren’t just about objects; they’re about meaning, memory, and the invisible threads between people.

• Making something by hand teaches patience, presence, and the value of the process over the outcome.

• Greek philosophy isn’t locked in books—it lives in the way people move, speak, and share.

• Surrendering control can bring a kind of peace that no perfection ever will.

• You don’t have to bring everything home. Sometimes, leaving something behind is the most lasting act of all.

If you ever find yourself on a sunlit island, don’t just take pictures. Make something. Let it stay behind. And carry something else forward.