It was late last summer that I started thinking about seed pods, the protective shell for developing seeds. The universe is cunning in that once we turn our attention to something iterations of it appear at every turn. Thistle seed pods imprinted in terracotta clay in the windows of Loro Piana; Karl Blossfeldt‘s exquisite poppy seeds on the packaging of a Loewe’s perfume. Jonas Frei‘s photographs. Akiko Hirai‘s organic forms. Milkweed, wild mustard, Kentucky coffeetree pods. Visiting Nan Shepherd in the winter was a privilege because few people see the world with her sensitivity and rigour. Nan’s collection of dried botanicals –– well into the hundreds –– is encased in tiny handmade boxes with glass tops. Each one is numbered, and she keeps a hand-written log with every detail of each seed, flower, bone and shell including where she found it. A few weeks after my visit with Nan, I sat at my kitchen table while it was still dark outside and made twenty double bowled vessels inspired by all that I’d absorbed. As the sun came up on the day, I felt like I’d achieved a week’s worth of work in one morning. The pods sat in my kitchen drying for weeks and weeks until I finally glazed and fired them this week. One of the big ones cracked straight down the middle which given how I’ve been feeling lately is about right. My children are growing up. I can’t protect them from life. All mothers know this, rationally. But love and fear are rarely rational, and once upon a time, I breathed for them. I considered joining the two halves with glue and gold leaf, but I’m starting to think that with some gentle sanding there can be two very beautiful vessels.