Small Vessels—Deep Healing
By late 2019, something fundamental had shifted in my studio practice. As I prepared for surgery and the adjuvant therapy that would follow, my hands seemed to know what my mind was still processing: it was time to work smaller, more intimately, more personally. The large slab-rolled dishes that had occupied my table before the "C" word gave way to something entirely different—small sculptural vessels that demanded a completely different kind of attention.
The transition wasn't conscious at first. I found myself reaching for smaller amounts of clay, my palms naturally forming bowls that fit in cupped hands rather than stretching across broad surfaces. Where I had once rolled slabs with confident, sweeping motions, I now found myself drawn to the ancient techniques of pinching and coiling—methods that required me to stay close, to work slowly, to build piece by piece.
Perhaps it was the approaching surgery that made me crave this intimacy with my materials. When you're facing medical procedures that will be done to your body, there's something profoundly reassuring about creating something entirely by the work of your own hands, something that grows only through your direct touch and patience.
Pinch pots became my meditation. Starting with a ball of clay nestled in my palm, I would work my thumb into the center and begin the slow, rhythmic process of pinching the walls thin and even. Each pinch was a small act of faith—faith that this modest beginning could become something beautiful, faith that slow, patient work yields results that rushing cannot achieve.
The coiling came naturally after the pinching. Long, thin ropes of clay rolled under my palms, then carefully joined to build walls higher, to create the curves and volumes I envisioned. There's something ancient and primal about coil building—it connects you to thousands of years of potters who built this same way, who understood that some things cannot be hurried.
The most surprising development was the appearance of faces on my work. Small, subtle features that seemed to emerge from the clay itself. A gentle curve became a cheek. A slight indentation suggested an eye. These weren't planned additions but discoveries—moments when the clay seemed to be telling me what it wanted to become.
Adding these faces felt like giving voice to the vessels, like acknowledging that these pieces were holding more than air and space. They were containers for emotion, for healing, for the complex feelings that come with preparing your body for medical intervention. Each face was different—some serene, some questioning, some carrying a quiet strength.
The decorative elements evolved too. Where my earlier work had been about broad surfaces and bold statements, these pieces called for delicate detail. I began rolling impossibly thin coils of clay, then applying them in patterns that followed the natural curves of each vessel. These weren't mere decoration but seemed to grow organically from the forms themselves—like vines, like veins, like the subtle marks that life leaves on all of us.
Working with such fine detail required a different kind of presence. I had to slow down, breathe deeper, let my fingers find their own wisdom. The thin coils couldn't be forced or rushed—they would break if handled roughly, crack if dried too quickly. They taught me patience in a way that felt directly applicable to what my body was about to endure.
These small sculptural pieces became more than pottery—they became companions. Each vase, bowl, and cup was sized to be held, to be lived with, to occupy intimate spaces. They weren't meant for grand display but for quiet moments, for holding a single flower, for drinking morning tea, for simply being present in a room where healing was happening.
As I prepared for surgery, these vessels felt like prayers made tangible. Each one was a small act of hope, a belief that there would be a future to hold them, to use them, to find beauty in the simple act of drinking from a cup or placing flowers in a vase.
The move from slab-rolled dishes to sculptural vessels marked more than a change in technique—it represented a shift in how I related to both clay and to my own body. The dishes had been about function, about serving others, about creating broad surfaces to hold and present. The vessels were about intimacy, about holding close, about the profound act of containing something precious.
In those months of preparation, as my hands learned new ways of working and my vessels grew smaller but somehow more significant, I was learning something essential about adaptation. Sometimes the most powerful response to life's challenges isn't to fight or resist, but to shift—to find new ways of working, new scales of meaning, new forms that can hold whatever we need them to hold.
The clay, as always, was my teacher. Through pinching and coiling, through adding faces and delicate decoration, through working small and intimate, I was preparing not just for surgery but for a different way of being in the world—one that understood the profound power of small vessels to hold big healing.
