I think I always loved clay and the wheel, which might be odd because I really didn't know anything about pottery or ceramics. I didn't own any handmade pots that I can recall, and I didn't understand what my instructor was talking about when she discussed the beauty of handmade objects, of the beauty of imperfection. She would say, “The clay knows,” and I thought that was kind of silly, to ascribe consciousness to clay; but, I felt mesmerized by seeing a malleable material become a beautiful form in skilled hands. I found that working in the studio was compelling because I had to focus all of my attention on it. I couldn't work in the studio and think about my outside worries, and a whole day could pass without me thinking about the things I normally obsessed over. Over time, I came to understand that the clay did know, because it perfectly recorded everything I did to it, and it reflected back to me something about my own inner state of being. I wish I could say I stopped judging my work harshly, but the truth is that I learned to be uncomfortable with what I made, because the pleasure of the process was worth my discomfort with the result. This was the beginning of my learning to let go of the outcome and follow my heart not just with clay, but in life too.

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Regardless of my focus on process, quality craftsmanship is still very important to me and something I admire in others' work, so I was excited to see that over time, my skills developed. Three years after taking weekly classes at my local community studio I went to The State University of New York at New Paltz for a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree and studied ceramics exclusively. While part of me thought a career in ceramics was an indulgent pursuit that my work wasn't worthy of, that it would never be good enough that people would actually pay for it, another part of me believed it would be even more indulgent to waste an opportunity to do what I really wanted to do because of fear of failure.