I started pottery shortly after my third child was born. For at least a year, I made the most minuscule things. I could only work on that scale. Tiny pinch pots fit for a doll’s house. I’d labour over each one for hours. Most of the them cracked before making it into their first firing. I didn’t care. I found the process, and the experience of handling clay, deeply gratifying. I’ve not done much yoga, and I’ve never meditated, but handling clay gives me the focus and quiet that people associate with both those things. These days, I make much larger vessels. Sometimes, I feel I can only make something large. And yet, every now and then, I return to the lowly pinch pot. Tiny and therapeutic, it feels like the right thing to do.