When all this began, one of the first things I stocked up on, before loo roll or hand sanitizer, was four boxes of clay. If we were to be confined to our home for an unforeseeable future I’d need clay. Clay to me is what flour is to my friend, Jessica, what plants are to my friend, Olivia. A Meditation. A conversation. A form of survival. My Mum, an emerging potter herself, had sleeves of paper clay delivered to her London flat hours before her studio closed. For weeks now, she’s sent me almost daily images of the weird and wonky bowls, platters and plates she makes at her kitchen table. In the first few days, I squished clay into our wooden dining room table with little to no idea of what to make. I’d roll it around, flatten it, beat it with a rolling pin. And then one day a small flower emerged from the table that paved the way for another flower, and another one after that. Two weeks later I had made fourteen flower vases. Ten days later there were 33. With each vase, the necks grew longer, and the shapes became weirder and more whimsical. I said to Michelle, the super talent who owns the studio I work out of, that we’re all looking to somehow distinguish our days so time doesn’t feel like a total blur. This series did that for me. A flower for every day, each one with its own distinctive personality. They all survived the first firing –– which I did not anticipate –– only the openings on some are so small that I’m not sure they’ll function as vases. Or anything, for that matter. But I plan on glazing and firing them, anyway. We’ve come so far.

Six weeks ago, my family stood at the shore of Lake Ontario and watched three adventurous souls brave the cold and swell of its waters. I found the experience exhilarating. I envied them a little, that in this time of quarantine, the wild and open water was theirs to surf. A few days later, we stood at the Humber River and watched three men casting their rods into the water in the hopes of catching a trout or two. I found this scene equally uplifting, but once again I envied their tranquility and freedom and connectedness to nature. We have since walked dozens of trails, disused train tracks, back alleys and secret woodlands in and around the city, and while it’s not the same as surfing a wave, or standing still in a river’s rush, walking has become our meditation, our freedom, our opportunity to connect with nature. Sometimes, we’re recovering from an argument, other times we’re avoiding the dishwasher; some walks are restorative, others energizing. Some walks are so tedious that we wonder why we ever left the house. And some walks, like the one we took along the sand dunes in Prince Edward County, fall into the archive of life moments we’ll never forget. Today, as we neared the end of our walk, I lay back on a blanket of dandelions and enjoyed the solidity of the soil beneath me. This is my surf. This is my catch.