Thursday, April 27, 2017

Back to Home Base.


It's been a wonderfully busy month: showing and selling, meeting and greeting. As a solitary studio artist, getting around other artists, art and art lovers brings a whole new energy to my life and, I do think ultimately, to my art as well. I see work that inspires me. I talk to other artists about their process and studio life. I share my process with art show visitors from high school art students to veteran art buyers.

Many people who visit the shows and see wonderful work, never know how much work goes on in the background. And truth be told, before I did shows like this, I didn't have any idea either. I'm not talking about the actually art making but the making of an art show. 

This is show takes two days to set up. Over 100 artists work loading and unloading huge trucks full of equipment, painting pedestals, and setting up complex lighting systems. Teams work to set up each large group area like the group gallery or cashier/check out area. Then individual artists work to set up their own booth or shelves with their own work. The show lasts for 3 days. Then everyone teams up again for take down but instead of days, they have hours to get it all disassembled, packed and cleaned up. 

Fired up to burned out. 

I watched my work go off to new homes. I loaded lighter boxes into my car and drove home feeling a good kind of tired. I'd unpack later, because then I needed food, wine and sleep.

A few days later, it was time to tackle the rest of the job. Back in the quiet of my studio, boxes needed to be unpacked. My inventory needed to be tallied. My shelves refilled. I worked with silence as a cozy companion while I checked off pieces and added up my sales. I made more than my fees and costs, so I'm grateful. I usually leave the math for last, worried that my total will not be enough to balance out all the costs from show fees and commissions to the hours, days and months of work. 

People see the work but not the work that went into it. Even I can't accurately calculate the true sum of materials, time, education, experience and energy that goes into each piece I make. 

The work of the heart is hard to measure in dollars and cents.

As an artist, teacher and mother, I understand and somewhere inside me I accept and embrace it. There's a part of me that wouldn't have it any other way. And, yet, there are forces surrounding us lately that derail even the best intentions. Forces that make it harder for all of us to see, live and work from our hearts when we worry about taxes, health care and education.  

When I see myself distracted by the distress, I want to fix it. Make it right. Solve it. But again and again, I come back to the truth, I can't solve the worlds' problems. I can only do what I know is right in my part of it. 

Time to come back to home base. Create it with strength and heart and kindness and a deep appreciation of the wisdom and forces that were here before me and are beyond me. 








Thursday, April 20, 2017

Creating Relaxation.


I am a go go, do do, move faster kind of person. The more I have on my 'to do' list, the happier I am, or so I think. But the last few weeks, I've been forced to slow down because a cold and cough just literally took the wind out of me. 

For a few days, watching Netflix, reading and napping was comforting but after three weeks, part of me really rebelled. I wanted to race walk to the park. Get on the wheel and throw. Prune my bushes for spring. I got myself off the couch and back to work and my body rebelled with more coughing and exhaustion. 

How can I relax more?

This question came through my email inbox from well known author, Tara Mohr. As she was stuck in traffic worried about being late for an appointment, she asked herself this question. She found that in many instances where she would normally rush, push and stress, she could find a way to relax.

It made me wonder. Is it really me or is it life long conditioning that keeps me on the move almost 24/7? It's not the first time I've wondered about whether I'm the driver or being driven. Maybe just like Tara, I could stop pushing the pedal to the metal so hard. Certainly my body needed a slower pace. 

Maybe instead of missing something, I might discover some things.

Here's what I found out:  I still got work done. I got my work priced and delivered and set up for two shows. I did get some of my bushes pruned and some of them got pruned by the wind storm. I did have to say no to a few things I wanted to go and do, so my body could get the rest it needed. But as a result, of not pushing and over-doing, I'm slowly starting to feel better. 

Now, when I get temped to go, go, go, I ask myself, "Can I create relaxation, too?"
When I'm driving, I can rest my head against the headrest instead of trying to push the other cars with my neck. When I'm shopping, I can take a breath while waiting in line. Working in the studio, I can look up at the sky in between paint strokes. While unloading my work and setting up my shelves for the show, I can step back, take a breath(because I literally had to) and look at the overall display. Walking doesn't always need to be a race, just because I'm choosing to walk slower doesn't mean I am slow.

I don't think I have to come to a full stop which is what I fear most. I realize I can just hit the pause button, take a breath and create a little relaxation in that one moment. Creating relaxation while in motion makes everything flow a little smoother. 

Friday, April 14, 2017

Another Wonderful Silly Jilly Year!


Today is my sweet, Jilly's 12th birthday! It's a special celebration of life because according to her vets, 3 years ago, she was supposed to be dead. But they were so wrong.

Jilly is here. She's alive. She's wagging and barking and sniffing and walking in the park. 

Jilly is a wonderful in many ways and she is also a bit of a handful. She is a Guide Dog Career Changer which means, at 14 months, they decided she was not Guide Dog material. They had good reasons, but that doesn't mean she isn't a very good dog. She just had her own mind, her own desires and her own talents that made her more unique. It also made her more of a challenge to train.  

When Jilly came to us, she was sweet and lovable but she was also strong-willed and smart. She would not come when called. When approached, she ran away. She jumped when a van door slammed or someone approached from the back or there was a grate in the sidewalk. It took a lot of time, patience and stubbornness on my part to work our way around and through her obstacles. But we made it. Together.

Jilly is my studio partner, side-kick and friend. 

Wherever I go, whatever I do, Jilly is right there. When I throw out in the cold garage, Jilly is right there on her dog bed. If I'm glazing inside the studio, Jilly is right outside the door watching. If I go outside, she follows. If I go upstairs, she climbs up right after me. 

Lately, Jilly's been very upset because I've been sick with a bad cold and cough. Every time I cough, she jumps up to check on me and pants until I start breathing better. It's been hard on both of us because I realize I've been worried about her, too. You see those dire predictions from the vets all those years ago, have hovered over me like a dark cloud. Until today.

Today, Jilly is twelve years strong. She is my sweetness and light. Now, as always, Jilly, is her strong, exuberant, stubborn self and I wouldn't want her any other way.  

Here's to her and her favorite treat: special birthday waffles to celebrate!


Thursday, April 6, 2017

Picking up the Pieces of Joy.


As I made this small treasure jar, I imagined it sitting sweetly waiting to hold little bits of joy. But as you can see, this jar is broken. And, worse yet, I broke it. Unloading the kiln load, I picked it up off the tray, the lid slipped out of my hand and crashed to the hard floor. 

Picking up the pieces of joy.

As I searched the floor for the pieces, hoping I'd find one big chunk, all I found were clay crumbs. Nothing big enough to fill the gap in the lid appeared, yet I couldn't throw the jar away. So I put the jar with it's broken lid on the shelf above my work area thinking that I'd find a way to put it all back together.

What if? I came up with ideas to save it. What if I never glazed it but just kept it at bisque stage, made a piece to fit, glued it in and painted it to match? What if I only glazed the inside of the jar, then, after the final firing, I could make a faux piece out of epoxy and paint it to match. 

I heard myself say, "Let the joy jar go."

But there it sat on the shelf. Still. I kept working on new pieces, more and more treasure jars appeared on my shelves, but noting like the little joy jar. I kept on working figuring that somehow it wouldn't matter so much anymore.  I'd have other jars that were better and taller. Unbroken.  Perfect.

Or, I could just make another joy jar. Somehow, it just didn't happen. I didn't make another one. When it came time to glaze my other pieces and do a final firing, I did glaze the inside of the joy jar. It did go into the kiln broken lid and all. 

It came out perfectly imperfect. 

And every time I see it, I smile. And my heart glows just a little bit, knowing that joy doesn't need to be perfect to be joyful.

Saturday, April 1, 2017

Spring Fever.


As I look out my window at the distance fog and hear the rain patter down while sipping a cup of hot tea, I wonder where is Spring? I see a sprinkling of blossoms on the horizon but sunshine and warmth feels very far away. I keep trying to bring it closer.

I bought daffodils by the dozens and sprinkled them around my house.

I clipped the few blooming hyacinths in my yard and brought them inside. 

I got out the bunnies and eggs and springtime colors. 

But a fog remains. Inside and out. I find myself looking once again, longingly, out the window. Searching for that light and warmth that promises new beginnings have begun. 

Until then, I sit and sip my tea, plant my own ceramic lily inside and hope.


Saturday, March 25, 2017

Monday's with Meyer: Life Lessons from a Toddler.


I love Monday's with my sweet granddaughter. Meyer, now at the ripe young age of 18 months, is officially a toddler but not yet into the terrible twos. Most people see this age of tantrums and defiance as terrible but I've never seen it that way at all. In fact, my children were wonderful at two because just like Meyer, they had already graduated from toddlerhood. 

The not so terrible awfully wonderful twos.

Toddlerhood is a huge learning stage. It is the beginning of learning to be human in the most basic and wonderful ways. Meyer, like my own children, is learning to be independent and live in our very complex world. 

Toddlers know what they need and they listen. 

Toddlers are amazing to me because they are the essence of being human. They know what they are hungry for and only want to eat that now, thank you. They may love bananas today and eat them all day and reject them tomorrow. They might want a cheese sandwich for breakfast and cereal for dinner. No matter what the clock says, when they are tired and crabby, they go to sleep, now.   When they need to run, they run. When they need to relax, they curl up in your lap with a book.  

As grown ups, we regularly deny ourselves what our bodies truly want and need. If we need food before the clocks says it's lunch, we don't eat. If we want breakfast for dinner and others don't, we don't speak up. We use caffeine and diet regimes to keep ourselves awake when we need to rest and ignore our true hunger when we need to eat. 

Toddlers play to learn and learn to play.

Watch a toddler put a puzzle together. Stack colored cups by size.  Make marks with a crayon. You may think you are watching her play. You are watching her learn geometry, algebra, writing, and reading. Watch her stir a soup of rocks, pat pancakes out of play dough or push a basket around collecting toys and you are seeing her learn life skills of cooking and shopping. 

As grown ups, we think we know all the answers to life's puzzles. We've given up on playtime thinking that it's a waste of our time. As a result, we stop ourselves from learning and that stops us from solving what's really puzzling us. Our life becomes entrenched in routines of safety keeping us from trying new things that might delight, motivate and help us be happier and healthier.

Grown up doesn't mean stop growing. 

As Meyer learns to grown up, she's teaching me to live a better life as a grown up. Listen. Try. Delight. Eat. Grow. And, above all when I get tired, take a nap. 

Friday, March 17, 2017

Creating Space.


I needed more space. My kiln was full. My studio shelves were overflowing onto the countertops and I had no place to work. I was frustrated. I'm comfortable with the flow of my work space. I'm comfortable with the way my studio is organized. But I'm uncomfortable with the lack of shelf space and work space. I'm even more uncomfortable with the mess that is necessary to make my space more functional.

Hello uncomfortable comfort zone.

I don't know about you, but this zone is very familiar to me. I've spent a lot of my life there. Maybe you have, too. But the real difference here is choice. I can leave my space overflowing, crowded with no place to work because it's familiar and comfortable. Or I can add a shelf unit, move my displays and re-organize giving me empty space to fill with new work. 

Ah, empty- a clue.

There's the old saying, "A glass is half full or half empty". I can see now I was looking at my studio the same way. I saw it as full and, even overflowing, with my creative work. And by adding the new space, a part of me was seeing it as a void. Empty. 

Someone once suggested that the reason I didn't sell my work quickly was because I was hanging onto it out of fear. Like a protective parent who feared for the safety of their children going out into the world. I, frankly, thought this idea was a little crazy because I've made my living creating and selling my work whether it was writing ads or making art. But I have to admit, when a piece finds a new home, there are mixed feelings of joy and loss.

Turning the glass around.

Looking at those new, clean, empty shelves in my studio, I have to admit the room feels lighter and fresher and more open. I have a bigger place for my glazes, mixers, funnels and bowls. I have a whole shelf for my forms, banding wheels, bats and work trays. I have 2 extra shelves in my display area for new work. And, yes, I have 5 new shelves completely empty and one that is tall enough now to accommodate bigger, taller pieces. 

Now I see clearly, my glass is not empty at all. It's full of new space for creating.  

 

Friday, March 10, 2017

Glazing and Hope.



My shelves are full and once again, I'm amazed. I never think I'm ever going to get any new work done, then magically work appears. Maybe it's the clay fairy at work while I sleep? The ghost of a frustrated artist? An angel? Seriously, it astounds me every time.

When I work, all I see is what's right in front of me.

The hand-built treasure jar that needs a knob or heart leaf. The thrown cups patiently waiting for handles with a twist. The plates and platters calling out for color. Sometimes I think I'll never get done. Other times I think I'll never have enough done. And yet, day by day, one by one, things get made and my shelves get too full for me to make anything new.
Time to finish what I started.

After bisque and more detail work, the last phase is glazing. I hate this process. Ok, that may seem a little harsh because I have gotten very efficient at it, finally. I, finally, have a glaze that works well with my under glazes and clay. I have a procedure that coats the pieces evenly. I set up, glaze, clean up all the mess and tools and floors and towels and brushes with confidence. But it's still not my happy place.

Is it beginnings vs endings? 

It could be. One is full of possibilities, wonder, enchantment. The other is over and out. With beginnings, I have no expectations. At the glaze stage, I have a finished piece and I want it to come out of the kiln finished and whole as I imagined it to be. 
Hope. Fear. And magic. 

Yes, there's fear that the piece will blow up or crack and the finish for that piece will be the trash. But it's also the knowledge that I have to let go. Letting go is also scary. I make each piece by hand but it's more than my hand that shapes the pieces. It's my heart and soul. And each piece carries my hope, too, that it will be good, solid, pleasing and whole.

And that is the magic of creation.


   

Friday, March 3, 2017

Hope Springs Forward.



There's something about the start of March that fills me with hope. I know that the calendar shows March as the month of Lent, the Ides of March and Springing Forward but somehow even against all these unlikable things, I like March. 

Change is in the wind.

Go outside and take a good, long, deep breath. Fill your lungs. Taste and smell that March air. There is something definitely different out there. The snow might still be falling and the wind bites at your neck, but in spite of it all, there's a sparkle in it like bubbles in champagne that haven't burst just yet.

I look around and still see winter's stillness. There are no new buds or leaves on my trees. My garden is filled with very dark, damp dirt and the moss is thick on the ground. But I sense somewhere underneath it all, energy is building and change is happening. 

It's time to get out the primroses. 

Even though I know they won't last until next year, I plant primroses anyway. There's something about their bright pink, yellow and purple colors that lure me every year. I only buy a few to sprinkle around my front door but every time I pass by I feel uplifted and fortified and slightly giddy. I don't know about you, but with all that's happening in our country, I really need the energy of March this year. 

It's March. It's blustery and cold and bright like a promise on the edge of fulfillment.
It's March. It's a hint of the tide of winter changing to spring. 
It's March. It's hope springing forward. 





Friday, February 24, 2017

Life Lesson: Live Like Jilly.


Jilly starts each morning with kisses. She kisses me. Then she goes over and kisses my husband. After kisses, she flops down on her cushy bed awaiting her daily belly rubs. After belly rubs, it's breakfast time(hers and some of mine), followed by a walk in the park. 

Ignorance is her bliss. 

Two years ago, she didn't feel her usual tail wagging self. After three vet visits and some very expensive tests, they concluded she had 3 months to live. They wanted to do a risky surgery and start her on chemo to give her, perhaps, 6 months. We decided to let her live her life the way she wanted to live it for as long as she could. We didn't tell her she was going to die and she didn't. Yup. She was 9 years old then, she's 11 going on 12 now.

Living the ruff life.

Jilly, my sweetness and light, wakes each morning wagging her tail in delight for another day. She wakes looking forward to breakfast, a walk, treat, nap, more treats, running around the backyard, dinner, pets, Kong playtime(with treats), another nap, belly rubs and bedtime. She barks happily when her people get home. 

We were worried a few months back because our happy-go-lucky lab, Jilly was groaning. A lot. She groaned from her bed in the afternoon. She groaned when we were upstairs with her and when we weren't. She groaned when the baby came over. Fearful, I went into overdrive watching her every movement for any sign of illness or, yes, death approaching. I was afraid to ask her to sit, stay or follow me anywhere, so I left her peacefully alone.

Another life lesson from Jilly: we all need to be needed. 

While I tip toed around, leaving Jilly quietly alone, she groaned louder. And louder. And louder. Until one day, I finally got it. Jilly was trained originally to be a guide dog and that training had a strict daily routine with commands for action. Walk. Sit. Follow me. Down. Stay. And guide dogs are always with their trainers or masters. They are rarely left alone.

I wasn't asking Jilly to do anything, so she felt unneeded. I started treating her like a guide dog and she stopped groaning. She is now happily following me around the house, upstairs and down. She is doing her job, staying near me, throughout the day. 

It was my fear of losing her that made her feel lost. She has no fears. She didn't know a doctor thought she was dying. She doesn't worry about tomorrow.  Jilly only wants to live her life doing all the things that make her happy with the people she loves. Walk in the park. Nap. Eat treats. Play.  

I always thought of myself as Jilly's teacher but now I know better. Jilly is here to teach me some very important life lessons: live each and every moment with no fear. And more treats.

Friday, February 17, 2017

Kind heart. Kind words. Kind thoughts.


How often do I think these thoughts? Less than I'd like. I get caught up in my 'to do' lists, which seem so important before and so mundane after it all gets done. Then, of course, there's the Internet full of trumped up illusions of truth, anger and now, shame. The characters on our national stage right now keep my head spinning and maybe that's their game; to keep us all muddled and embarrassed while they move around the board acquiring their own winnings. 

It's way too easy to get caught up in comparison. Them. Us. You. Me. 

I do it all the time and I used to berate myself for it or shove it away. But no matter how hard I tried to pack comparison into a box, it always popped out again. It made me mad at myself until this national freak show I was watching showed me the danger of hate, lies and negative thinking.

It's time to unpack the box with a kind heart. 

As I looked at each and every comparison, I discovered the truth. Each comparison thought wasn't a rock in my path, but a stepping stone. It was a place or an idea or a technique or way of being that I thought I couldn't go, have, learn or be. But where my heart really wanted to go. It was there to show me the way to the life I truly wanted. 

Kind words helped. 

Now that I see the heart of comparison isn't truly bad, I can use good, kind words towards myself and others. When I hear words like can't, never, shouldn't; I can remember the words like can, maybe and could.

Comparison is, ultimately, a human evolutionary learning tool. We all learn by seeing something we want and figuring out how to do it or get it. I watch my granddaughter do it all the time. She sees words and hears me read and she wants to read it herself. She gets frustrated she can't read by herself, yet, and that frustration leads her to learn. 

Kind thoughts. 

We all want to live, love and feel safe in our world. I want to create, share and get inspired. Kind thoughts about ourselves and our world can help us all to ease the grief, anger and fear from world events. Keeping kind thoughts in my mind opens me up to inspiration instead of comparison and takes me one step further toward learning and creating.

Friday, February 10, 2017

Monday's with Meyer: A New Song.


Early on Monday mornings, I hear a squeal at my front door and a sweet little voice says, "Gramamama!"  Her little legs wiggle with wild and wonderful happiness while she reaches out her little arms for me. What a way to start my week!

Kisses and hugs and she's off and running. Breakfast. Gathering her flock of animals. Sorting rocks. Doing puzzles with Granda. And that's all in the first hour, before we take our walk to the park. After that there's music, dancing, snacking, cooking and making (pretend) lattes to order, coloring and, finally, lunch and naptime.

Developing humans are fascinating. Truly.

Originally, I majored in Early Childhood Development. I now remember why I wanted to study them. Why I worked in preschools. Why I loved every energetic, non-stop minute. These little humans are the essence of what it is to be human. They touch, see, absorb and savor every single minute. When they're hungry, they eat. When they're tired, they sleep. When they're sad or scared or angry, they feel it. 

Right in the moment. 

Meyer loves so many things in the world. She is fascinated by everything and everyone. She is open, curious, inventive, exploratory, creative and adventurous. She, in her perfect toddler fashion, runs between toys, people and food with equal desire and interest. She is driven to learn about everything and everyone in her world. And even though some new experiences seem too much to her at first and she might need a step back, it doesn't stop her. 

When she's happy, you know it.

I remember a song I always sang with my toddlers, perhaps you remember it too: "When you're happy". As we dance and sing to the Raffi channel, I hear that song come on and I joyfully sing along until I realize something is wrong. The words and the song were written to describe and teach toddler the words and actions that go with feelings. But this song is wrong.

The song now is:
When you're happy and you know it, clap your hands.(repeat 2 times)
When you're happy and you know it, then your face will surely show it.
When you're happy and you know it, clap your hands.
(Other verses):
When you're happy and you know it, stomp your feet.
When you're happy and you know it, yell hoorah!

Absolutely no other feelings in the song. Here's the verses to the song as I taught it:

When you're happy and you know it, clap your hands. 
When you're sad and you know it, say boohoo.
When you're mad and you know it, stomp your feet.
When you're sleepy and you know it, close your eyes(yawning is action)
(Repeating the line ...you're face will surely show it...after each verse)

What happened to having feelings?

This is a huge wake up call to me. And maybe the reason we're having so many problems right now with stress, insomnia, weight gain and anger in our world. We've all been taught that song and now the only feeling we're supposed to be feeling is happy? 

Now as adults, we all know that's not true. We feel a wide range of feelings and we have names for them. We know that feelings cycle like the seasons and weather. They come and go. Sometimes soft and sweet, sometimes loud and fearful. Change and changing feelings go with being human on this planet.

It's alright to feel wrong sometimes. So let's change and cycle back.

Let's teach our toddlers and ourselves, if we need the reminder, the most important lesson of being a healthy human. It's ok to be happy, mad or sad and show it. 

Friday, February 3, 2017

Creative Rhythm.


Working as I do; writing, drawing, sculpting, throwing requires many skills but the most important of all is surrender. I'm not talking about giving up but giving in. With all the outside distractions lately, I've had a really hard time giving in to the peace and space to create. The result: my own creative rhythm is definitely off beat.

How do I get my beat back?


I took a few steps forward last week at the wheel. This week started with some steps backward but it took those steps to make me see where I really needed to go.  And, surprise, it's not spending more time cringing and complaining about what's wrong and liking the unlike able. I'm not turning my back on the situation or sticking my head in the sand, but the change I want to see in the world has to start from the inside out. Giving in before giving out. 

Baby steps.  Literally.

Mondays with Meyer are a joy. Meyer and I focus on the world in front of us: sorting smooth river rocks, making animal sounds, watching geese fly, catching snowflakes, singing joyful songs and scribbling with bright colors. By giving Meyer what every toddler needs, I'm giving in to myself as well. I'm connecting with my inner child, the true artist who experiences and experiments in every moment. Not every move works, sometimes you trip and fall but I can say to myself what I say to Meyer, "Oops. It's ok. Let's get up and move on."


Moving is the key.

I love to dance. In college, I took ballroom dancing and loved it. But the biggest lesson of dance isn't learning the steps, it's learning to trust. As the music plays, I had to believe in my own body to make the right steps, to trust my movement forward and backward, to give in to my own inner rhythm.

Sometimes in the studio and in life, I try to rush or push my work out because my mind gets on the worry track. I think I'm not working hard enough or fast enough or good enough. When I focus on product instead of the process, I loose my footing. Just like dancing, I've got to turn off my mind and give in to the music, movement and joy of the moment.


Whether I'm creating with my feet or hands, trust is essential. And the basis of trust is giving in to my own inner compass, listening to the true song of my soul and dancing to its unique creative rhythm.

Thursday, January 26, 2017

As The Wheel Turns: Throwing Hope.



So much is going on in the world around us all. It's outrageous, enraging and a very bad episode in reality. I've written about it before and I really don't want to write about it anymore. I want to live, hope and dream of a better day, a prouder day, a wholesome, whole-hearted, whole world for each of us. 

Making my day means just that: making.

I am an artist. I am a writer. I am a maker. I throw cups, bowls and vases. I sculpt faces, figures and masks. When my wrist was broken and I couldn't sculpt, I got a gel pen and drew in my sketch pad. When my husband was laid off and I had to work, I taught art classes, mask classes, held an open studio to sell more work. No matter what the world brings to my door from a broken wrist to a broken heart, I make something anyway.

I fill my kiln and my wheel keeps turning.

Throwing yesterday was a retreat for me, a place to sit and center, a place to ground myself into the earth. I had no agenda, deadline or concept in mind. I took out the clay, sat down and let myself be. Here's where the miracle happens, because many times, I fight with the clay to get it centered, to get it to form into my preconceived idea of what it should be, but this day, I was tired of should, of right or wrong, of fact or fiction. I let the clay be what it wanted to be. 

What rose up from my fingers were 2 vases and 2 plant urns. It wasn't my best throwing day or  my worst. And it didn't matter. Will they make it through the kiln process? Will they sell?  Will I like them in the end? Again, it doesn't matter. What matters is that I was there, embracing the clay, centering myself with earth in my hands.

I can't stop the war of mean words out there. But I bring the inside out with hope and peace.

One vase, one pot, one turn of the wheel at a time.