I spent the morning editing bios for an upcoming ceramics show I am participating in next weekend. What I found interesting, was the sheer variety of titles participant’s used to describe themselves. Some identified as artists, while others preferred potter. There were ceramic artists, ceramicists, craftspeople, designers, artisans and makers. It got me thinking about the much-theorized topic of what constitutes an artist, and whether a metalsmith, potter or pâtissier, can be considered one. I usually refer to myself as a writer and a potter. I’m ok with potter, in fact, I think it sounds charming and nostalgic. But I understand that for a lot of people, it rings lowly and old fashioned. Pottery is functional. Ceramics is art. That’s the distinction many people make. The word art comes from a root that means to “join” or “fit together” I read today. So arguably, anyone who makes or crafts things is an artist. How we choose to identify ourselves is personal to the individual, (training, credentials, years-under-your-belt, all inform one’s choice) and it just so happens that we’re alive at time where definitions and perceptions are more flexible than ever. I say, call yourself whatever rings true to you. Which judging by the diversity of personal statements I read today, is what people are choosing to do.

I’m not wild about orchids, but in the winter months, I’m drawn to their longevity. I can pick up a plant at my local flower shop that with a little water and direct sun, will bloom for us for months. Brassavola orchids, the ones with white or greenish flowers, are my favourites. Orchids are epiphytes –– plants that grow on other plants without harming them –– and I find this twist in nature so intriguing. Our nanny, Marilyn was telling me about her Filipino mother’s love of orchids today. She’s cared for the same two dozen orchids for almost a decade. “She plants them in the husk of a coconut, and hangs them from the branches of the tree in her garden.” After a while, the orchids discard the husks. They’ve tethered themselves to the tree’s branches. Marilyn took our orchid home today. It had dropped its flowers, and she was interested to see whether she could get it to flower again. A personal winter challenge, she said. An homage to her Mum. In the meantime, I stopped into my local flower shop and bought a small plant, with five delicate flowers on it.

We brought so many lovely shells back from the Gulf, and a few shark teeth, also. I was on Pinterest this morning looking at ways to display them. I’m thinking of gluing them all to a piece of a linen, (palm frond green or flamingo pink) and framing the fabric in a simple white frame. We found some lovely bits of Mother of Pearl, even the fragments of shells are interesting. I’m a lifelong shell-seeker –– it’s my favourite thing to do on a beach –– and I love the idea of a shell wall, sourced from various corners of the world.

Japanese is beautiful language, made up of words that carry a very nuanced and precise meaning. Komorebi, is the Japanese expression for that strain of exquisite sunlight that filters through trees, and Yugen reminds us that beauty is not just in what the eye can see. Furusato refers to one’s hometown, less about provenance, and more about where the heart longs to be. This morning I learned the word, Nakama, a very good friend, or comrade, that while not related by blood, is your family. Jason was the first person that sprang to mind. I feel fortunate to have a small handful of Nakamas in my life, those people that weave their way into our inner most fibres. I also like the word, tsundoku, “the charming tendency of some book lovers to purchase and collect so many books that they pile up unread.” This makes me think of my dad, who has at least five books on the go at any one time, and still has towers of unread books around him. And Ganbarimasu, “I’ll do my best,” is a word we all should know.

Sunbathing is one of those pastimes that the idea of is more alluring than the reality. Within minutes, I’m boiling hot, and sweat is collecting in all my creases. I’m twitchy and itchy and bursting to get up. No book is captivating enough to hold me hostage on my lounger. No, me I’d rather walk the beach, swim in the sea, and admire the sunbathers.