I am a potter, but more than that, I am a listener — to the quiet voices of earth and form. When I touch clay, I feel as though I am giving birth to something ancient and yet entirely new. Though inanimate, each piece carries its own soul, its own breath.

Clay is memory — it holds the press of fingers, the pace of thought, the silence between motions.

In my hands, raw earth becomes a vessel not only of function, but of meaning — a revival of the forgotten, a rebirth of what lay dormant. I do not command the clay; I converse with it. And together, we give shape to something that may never speak — but always remembers.