The wheel spins and my hands remember how to shape something. It's always like this with ceramics. My body knows what to do before my brain catches up. I've been throwing mugs all morning, thinking about the client from last night who wanted nothing more than to talk about his garden. Sometimes the work is so far from what people imagine.
There's a particular silence in my studio that I love. Just the hum of the wheel, clay spinning between my palms. It reminds me of other quiet moments, like waiting for a client, or the space between breaths during an intimate encounter. Quiet isn't empty. It's full of potential.
My hands are dry from clay. Pale crescents of dried slip under my fingernails. I'll wash them later, thinking about how many different kinds of work leave their marks on a body. Some visible. Some not.
I'm learning that time is the most precious thing. Not just billable hours, but these moments. Spinning clay. Watching light move across my workbench. Breathing.