Is it useful? Is it beautiful? I think about William Morris often when I make something out of clay. “Have nothing in your home that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.” My intention is to make something, that to someone out there, is both. Beauty is more subjective than function, although possibilities for the latter are endless with a little imagination. I’m always so happy to see a bowl I’ve made making its way into someone’s daily life. Apples, seashells, spools of thread, my pieces are made to be filled with whatever makes you happy. My friend, Tara keeps old issues of the New Yorker in one of my large finned bowls, and my friend, Maryam fills her oval winged platter with Iranian pistachio nuts. In my hands it was one thing, in theirs it became another. When someone asks me what something’s for, I say, “anything you want; a lemon, a parsnip, a handful of golf balls.” Or as my friend and fellow potter, Katherine says, “For your happiness.”

I’m not sure that there is a person alive who doesn’t like sunflowers. Granted, it’s bees and children that love them most, but I’ve yet to meet a grownup that doesn’t swoon on receipt of a bunch of sunshine. I have six stems with golden flowers the size of dinner plates sitting at my kitchen table that are a banquet for the eyes. Jason’s grandparents grew them in their garden, and some would reach soaring heights, 10 feet or more. I used to marvel at them every time we’d visit. The best part was seeing Gino & Stefania –– they were both tiny –– standing next to these towering sunflowers full of joy and pride. First come the peonies, then the Dahlias –– and then come the sunflowers, summer’s last laugh.

I tried to make something really complicated this week, and what’s more, I tried to make it fast. Needless to say, it cracked in four places, and the whole project was a big waste of time, energy and clay. And then this morning, I began again. Only this time, I made something really simple. Something I hadn’t sketched out and thought about for weeks. Something that I’ve made variations on many times before. It turned out beautifully. And was a gentle reminder, that there is a time for exploration, and a time for staying close to what we know. And that either way, simple really is best.

This is the third entry on my orange tree. The first was peppered with naivety and hope. The second was weighed down by frustration and uncertainty. Since then, I’ve watched my plant slowly flourish and grow before my eyes, restoring some faith in, well, myself. While I know that I’ve had very little to do with its resurgence –– plants are such resilient and intelligent things –– I do feel some small sense of triumph. For starters, I stuck with it. No small feat when the voices in my head were willing me to give up, let someone more seasoned (read: patient) take over, trade it in for a leafier, fruit baring one that’s neither nuisance nor eye sore. It was amazing how quickly it began to show signs of progress with just two or three adjustments to its care. Withered, yellow leaves fell away and tiny, acid green ones sprang through in their place. The texture of once thin and papery leaves turned waxy and robust. The satisfaction of watching this plant recover, bear new leaves and blossoms, has been truly gratifying. It turns out that it didn’t need much. A clean pot. Sun. Rainwater. Fertilizer. And maybe an attitude shift to its carer.