“There are many forms of love and affection, some people can spend their whole lives together without knowing each other’s names. Naming is a difficult and time-consuming process; it concerns essences, and it means power. But on the wild nights who can call you home? Only the one who knows your name.” Jeanette Winterson.

I have an observant eye. I see beauty almost everywhere I go. I see vile, scuzzy things, too. Sometimes, I wonder if unconsciously I am seeking out beautiful things to compensate for the rotten things I see. And vice versa. For balance. This morning, all the tiny snowflakes on the sidewalk looked like those bits of crushed sugar that bakers sprinkle on top of a Panettone. Or a constellation of stars. A little further along my path, I came across a chicken carcass and some old batteries peeking out from the snow. We’re in a city, after all, and beneath the blanket of snow are the ugly remnants –– the squished cigarettes, the disused syringes, the abandoned scraps of paper and plastic. I think it’s why many people choose to look up. There are no carcasses in the clouds. I’d rather not notice all the debris (I saw four shrimp shells in a patch of ice last week) but as a city walker with a keen eye, it’s impossible not to. I see the concrete, I see the carcass, I see the beautiful brooch on the old lady’s lapel.

My little girl asked me the other day why I no longer make cakes. I explained that when she and her siblings were very small, before I discovered clay, cakes offered an opportunity to be creative. The cakes were a gesture of love, in the form of double decker vanilla sponge and sickly sweet icing, but they were just as much for me as they were for them. They were a chance to unleash my inner artist. I spent hours and hours on those cakes. And even though they tasted pretty crap, (to a discerning adult) they were a delight to look at. Gold flakes, multi-hued sprinkles, heaps of flowers –– my cakes were pure whimsy. I needed those cakes. I needed the creative challenge they provided. These days, I’m satisfied (as are my kids) with a supermarket cake. Working with clay is not so dissimilar to working with pastry and fondant, and painting a vessel is like icing a cake. Pottery offers all the creative challenge I need. But next time the little girl asks for a homemade cake, I’ll make her one. And that cake, will be entirely for her.

I’ve been paying a little closer attention to the barren branches, grasses and dried seed heads in people’s gardens this winter. I’ve noticed how very beautiful they look, especially when covered with a light sprinkle of snow. Hydrangeas are lovely and delicate in winter, and so are those tall pompoms when they lose their purple flowers. Queen Anne’s Lace is so dainty and intricate, and I love the way ornamental grasses look in a frost. “I think I am more moved by something that is dying sometimes than moved by something that is alive,” says Netherlands-born garden designer Piet Oudolf. “When the flower is over you get the seed heads. You get the grasses that flower. You get these sort of skeletons. And that has its own charm.” Few things bring me joy like a full petaled poppy, or a plump hydrangea. But there is great beauty, another kind of beauty, in the bare stillness of what is left behind.

There’s something so clean and polished about a brilliant cut stone set on a simple gold band. Less classic, but often more intriguing, is jewellery that embraces jaggedy edges and irregular shapes. I appreciate both ends of the spectrum. Tessa Blazey designs engagement rings that celebrate nature’s imperfections and give women options beyond a diamond. Think Keshi pearls, Spinels and Ceylon Sapphires. There’s a tiny rough cut Canadian diamond in her collection, set on the finest of yellow gold bands, that I can see fitting quite comfortably in my day-to-day stack. It’s dainty, with an edge.

I’m taking a mini-break from the pool. I swam once last week (floated, more like it) and did an aquafit class the week before. I love swimming, I love the feeling of having swum, but my schedule is such right now, that the thrice-weekly commitment feels too large. Maybe it was losing my suit. Maybe it’s the hole in my favourite cap. Maybe it’s the cold. But I felt an opportunity to try something different. Yoga, perhaps. My goal for now is to get in the pool at least once a week, be it to float, stretch or swim. I’ll still need a new cap. And this one looks like candy.