Clay draws me into its own sense of time. A form begun in the morning may need me again by evening; as it shifts, dries, and settles, attention becomes inseparable from the work. The material feels almost alive—not because it obeys, but because it responds, setting its own pace and asking for patience, instinct, and humility. What finally survives the process carries more than form and texture; it holds the depth of that long exchange—something ancient, physical, and made to remain.