Two generations ago. They named her John. She had a creative mind, a strong will and the courage to survive. My memories of her inspire in me a desire to embrace that which I cannot let go of. I started out with hands in the dirt. Lining up tiny mud bowls all in a row until they would dry and then crack and then crumble…dissolving into the dust where they began. Perhaps it was a yearning for permanence? Perhaps a way of knowing something would remain when I leave? More than that it is a homecoming. Every time I leave it behind, it follows me and begs to be revisited. Sinking my hands into the clay reconnects me with all that is within me and always has been. And it is my refuge. The quiet meditation that lulls my rushing mind into a singular hum, a warm silence. The forms that emerge reflect this quiet.