Yesterday and today I spent part of the afternoon planting garlic. Being outside, hands in the dirt, weeding and pulling out old vines, shifting compost—all these tasks move me out of my head and into physical attention where I notice the nuances of nature and relationships between growth and decay. I am struck by the smell of the frost bitten dill still hanging on by a thread or the withered Mexican marigolds that are particularly fragrant. Today’s goal was to plant garlic. I slip the garlic bulbs into the holes, sweep soil over them and cover them with a mulch of shredded leaves. The bulbs hold potential but are now gone from my sight. I trust they will grow. It is actually a mystery, the mechanics of how it all works, but perhaps that is why it is thrilling when they sprout and later when they are harvested.

In our friendship with Mikio he would often disappear for stretches of time, sometimes we might even be in the restaurant discussing a potential plate or bowl. I was left to wonder what next? He would return with an idea. His absences to Japan, Italy or California were often a mystery but for him nuances and projects were brewing. It was not unlike the miracle of garlic growing in the ground in the winter months.

“According to Buddhist teaching, there is a very close interdependence between the natural environment and the sentient beings living in it. These verses express the essential gentleness of the human spirit. They tell us that we should not only maintain gentle, peaceful relations with our fellow human beings, but that it is also very important to extend the same kind of attitude toward the environment.”

—The Dalai Lama, April 11, 1997, in the preface to Mikio’s book of his father’s calligraphy, Talk To A Stone: Nothingness, A Joost Elfferts Book published by Stewart, Tabori & Chang

I grew up as an atheist. But after losing someone in our close circle I can’t help but feel like I see them everywhere. I dream about them. I hope to speak to them again. I remember the turn of a wrist, the habit of speech. One of our early visits with Mikio was at the height of autumn at our house in Maryland. Mikio brought one of the chefs from Omen who had not yet been out of New York City. Our driveway was stupendously covered in yellow maple leaves. The chef took a walk at dusk and returned after dark covered in yellow leaves like he had been rolling in nature.

The Lesson Of The Falling Leaves

the leaves believe
such letting go is love
such love is faith
such faith is grace
such grace is god
i agree with the leaves

–Lucile Clifton

I took my dog walk with Luna a bit early today. We had been to visit a friend in Fredericksburg and I needed to stretch my legs. The air was warm and the clouds grey on one side of the sky and the sun low on the other side. The trees were stark against the dark clouds, shadows rippled through the neighbor’s pasture, the pale green of a hillside was reflected in a still pond. As I tried to capture something of the moment in a photo, a group of five swans flashed bright against the dark clouds. Everything felt interconnected—the swans contrasted against the dark sky, resurrecting my memory of the family of swans that nested on our pond this year. All linked together—the moment, the memory and the future.

Speaking of memory, we have been digging through our archive of photos. First I sought images of my pregnant body for Zoe as she moved through her own pregnancy. Then I’m amassing pictures of her as a newborn to discern family resemblances with her son Larkin. Most recently we are gathering photographic evidence of our long friendship with Mikio Shinagawa who recently passed away. He was a true friend, mentor, a great connector and encourager in our life. These deep dives in images and memories remind me of the interconnectedness of our neighbors, ancestors, landscape, food and artwork. Mikio always tried to remind us of our connections, in New York, Virginia, Maine, Japan and beyond. While we often looked to our past, Mikio always asked us to look toward the children of our future.

Q: What do you hope readers will take away from Cloud Cuckoo Land?

A: I hope readers are reminded of our myriad interconnections: with our ancestors, with our neighbors, with other species, with all the kids yet to be born. I believe that the more we can remember how much we’re all in the same boat—the more we can train ourselves to imagine, recognize, and remember our connections—with the bacteria in our guts, the birds outside our windows, the meals on our plates, and the children in our futures—the better off we’ll be.

–Anthony Doerr

Welcome to another series of my decembrance project. Each year the accumulation of 21 images is part memoir, part ode to the light as we count down to the shortest day of the year. It is a glimpse of the pots I have been making, the growing and browning things that catch my eye mixed with poems or quotes that resonate with the moment. Each year as the calendar shifts to December I wonder, Is it darker this year? The leaves have piled higher and deeper. The wind registers a different chord. By writing I remember that my task is to pay attention to the moments of light no matter if it is sunrise, flat noon, sunset, or candle light.

Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.

–Mark Strand, The Coming of Light

When I talk about my work I often use analogies inspired by seeds and gardens. Today as I dug through photographs of myself while pregnant to share with my daughter — who is due to have her baby a day before her own birthday — I thought more about roots. I came across so many images of Warren and I building our house, studio and kilns. We have collaborated to bring up our child, fire our kilns, exhibit our work and dig our roots. The land was pasture when we bought it. We have planted trees and flowers, vines, vegetables and ideas. It took me a long time to feel like Virginia was my home. Many cycles of the seasons have turned their heads. I can look back to see how we have grown our roots and admire the passing summer and welcome the fall.

As I dig for wild orchids
in the autumn fields,
it is the deeply-bedded root
that I desire,
not the flower.

-Izumi Shikibu

I love the momentum of making pots for the wood kiln– a long cycle of throwing and building and imagining how each piece will fill the organic space of the kiln. At the end when I have to quit I feel as if I have scraps of ideas that roll around my brain like incomplete poems. It’s always hard to say, “ok this is it, no more for this cycle.” There is excitement for the firing but a wave of sadness for the unmade.

& then there are those scrap poems, the ones too beautiful to finish writing, ones that would bring us too great a sadness if we ever thought they could really end. There are many of those.

-J. Todd Hawkins, from “Hooks Brothers,” in This Geography of Thorns: Blues Poetry from the Mississippi Delta & Beyond, Poetry Society of Texas, 2020.

I try not to repeat myself in a given series either in the pots I photo, or the flowers, or veggies, or quotes. But sometimes I work as if I was touching the undersides of pots. So the plants in the garden and the objects all need to be touched again.

I’d rather be loose fire
Licking the edges of all things but the absolute
Whose murmur retoggles me.
I’d rather be memory, touching the undersides
Of all I ever touched once in the natural world.

-Charles Wright, from Bicoastal Journal, in “Oblivion Banjo,” Farrar, Straus Giroux

I have been looking at a group of bottles on our dining room table, each one from a different firing, each with a different focus on form and surface. On my studio docket today was to make a new series of bottles. I often think about still lives. I remember an interrupted conversation I once had with Gwyn Hanssen Pigot. We were at the Garth Clark Gallery in New York City and I asked her if all the pots in a single still life parade came from the same firing. I wondered if pots ever hung around her studio waiting for the right mates to come along as she composed her parades. Her Australian friend interrupted us–admonishing me as if I didn’t understand how successful Gwyn was–so I never got to return to the conversation. Gwyn was inspired by Morandi’s still lives. When I take photos I often think about his painterly universe of form and structure. I imagine him looking hard at his objects as if any extra effects had been scraped away, as if the emptiness of the canvas was filled through his objects.

Over there’s the ur-photograph,
          Giorgio Morandi, glasses pushed up on his forehead,
Looking hard at four objects—
Two olive oil tins, one wine bottle, one flower vase,
A universe of form and structure.

-Charles Wright, from Looking Around