There's something about the early morning that feels like stolen time. I wake before the kiln starts its low hum, when the light is still grey and soft over Kilkenny. These hours belong only to me.
My ceramics work demands precision. Careful hands, measured movements. But escorting? That's a different kind of intimacy. Both require reading the unspoken. Sensing boundaries. Understanding rhythm.
Today I'm thinking about quiet. How some clients want conversation, some want silence. How I've learned to calibrate my presence like adjusting clay on a wheel. Soft pressure. Gentle turn.
The kettle whistles. Steam rising like possibility. I'll throw a few bowls before my afternoon booking. Curved forms emerging from formless clay. Not so different from how connections form between strangers. Unexpected. Tender. Imperfect.
Some mornings feel like this. Fragments. Observations. No neat conclusion. Just the steady pulse of work and waiting.