“I am never certain of the outcome, no matter how attentive I am to the plan. The clay holds the power, yet my hands are an extension of her. She may decide the final fate but she is heavily influenced by me, the maker. The color of feathers and how they are reflected onto a river, the subtle tracks in dusty, dry mud. The mud that never seems to grow grass. Those are my memories. To capture the scene in a literal sense is not what I am after.

I throw each piece on an old Shimpo that I acquired from another potter. Clay working my hands with rhythm and routine. Gentleness and the subtle brightness of the river is the anticipated outcome. It is stoneware, but it is earth from my mind. To hold it is to read my journal. “