the bowl maker | the small, round poems of Cary Lane


Every morning, before my family awakes, I go out to the studio to work with the wet clay, forming my bowls and cups. The intrinsic nature of clay touching the parts of my being that knows about rolling green hills, small summer lakes, old wooden tables, and hand gathered herbs brewing quietly for tea. Over this lovely earthen place, the magical dance of the alchemist is layered as the act of spinning a handful of clay into a round, inviting bowl feels like an amazing act of transformation each time.