Across the cobblestones

The Autumn days flow gently towards Winter, and the mulberry leaves fall in a slow moving wave as the morning sun washes across the grove, melting the frost which has briefly held them in place and casting them into the breeze. The white eyelash of a crescent moon fades into a pale blue sky. I am warm by the wood stove, the logs crackling merrily as the kettle sings, and beyond the window the voices of birds twittering in the garden form tiny puffs of steam in the icy air. I wave to Mika as she drives off to work, the car bouncing over the cobblestones. I lean closer to the window so that she can see my face, but my breath fogs up the glass.

“Each breathe exhaled a drop of rain.” That’s what my friend Robert said…

What a deeply profound a beautiful thought. Clouds of water vapour condensing in the atmosphere and returning to the earth as rain, and every breath we exhale contains enough water vapour to form a single drop. Our very breath intertwined with the turning of the seasons, each of us the consciousness of nature aware of the wonder of itself. 

It is easy to forget that we are an integral part of the natural world when modern industrial society separates us so. I recently spent a week in Tokyo, where you cannot see the stars or the moon, and the only sunlight to reach you is reflected off the mirrored glass of skyscrapers all around. Stores where there are no windows, where the air is pumped through machines. The glare of artificial light makes your eyes sting, the cacophonic blare of duelling piped music and advertising rhetoric buzz painfully in your ears, and the miasma of competing artificial fragrances from the cosmetic counters and the milling crowd makes you feel nauseous. There are no staff to greet you, you select your purchases alone, and take them to a self serve cash register where an emotionless electronic voice rasps instructions.

“Put your money in now,” she drones. 

I take some notes from my wallet and try to feed them into the mouth of the machine.

“Put your money in now,” she drones, and spits the note back out. I unfold the corner and feed it back in, then try to find the right coinage to finish the transaction.

“Put your money in now,” she drones.

“Just wait a sec, I’m trying to get the right change.” I say to her as I rummage in my wallet.

“Put your money in now,” she drones.

“Hang on, hang on!” I say, getting more flustered by the moment.

“Put your money in now,” she drones. 

I don’t have exact change, but close, so I pour the coins into the hopper. 

A few coins rattle into the tray. She spits a receipt at me.

“Take care not to forget your change and receipt.” she rasps.

I take the coins from the tray…

“Take care not to forget your change and receipt.” she rasps. An electronic bell starts to ring because I am too slow…

“Yes, yes!” I say as I put the coins into my wallet. I reach out to take the receipt…

“Take care not to forget your change and receipt.” she rasps.

“Don’t be so bloody impatient!” I say as I take the receipt from her mouth.

The bell finally stops.

“Thank you for your custom.” she simpers, then falls silent as she waits for her next victim.

Out on the streets is the constant rumble of cars and trucks and construction sites, the reek of exhaust fumes, asphalt and sewerage. The days are grey and the nights are bright, and it is never quiet, and it is never dark…and it is not just the homeless, huddled under cardboard boxes in the corners of the bridge who are alone, we are all separated from each other and our greater selves, treated like machines by machines, like cogs in the industrial mill…

Faceless… 

Replaceable… 

Now that I am home in Minakami, however, back on my side of the cobblestones, I feel human again. I have been sorting my pots from the last firing for exhibitions over the next few months, and each vessel is a unique revelation. The plates this time are particularly exciting, the poured stripes of blue-green Sasa glaze breaking into subtle pinks, against the flashed salmon body, with twisting tendrils of Igusa Hidasuki rush marks over the soft spiral throwing rings. I’m sure that they would be wonderful mounted on a wall, but how much more splendid when serving food to nourish the mind and body! As I sort through the pots, they suggest meals that they would love to have served on them, so I select a couple of plates and invite them to dinner.

Yes, every piece has been made by my own hands, but I have not been alone in the process, because the forces of nature have been my collaborators. A potter’s task is not to enslave the clay and force it to their will, but to discover the potential of the clay and guide it into a new form. Knowing when to apply your skills and when to step back and allow nature to run its course; to be still and let the clay flow through your fingers until it finds its shape; to understand the living flame of the kiln and feed it when it is hungry and give it space to breathe; this is what is to be a potter. And every pot is a discovery and an expression of the beauty of nature, not as a separate thing, but as a realisation of your self as part of the biosphere. 

Our home is surrounded by rice paddies, orchards and farms, and beyond them forested mountains marching away to snowy peaks. With a large cloth bag which my friend Kumon-san made for me, I walk the ten minutes to the local farmer’s market. I greet the neighbours as I pass; Kawai-san and Honda-san with their helpers packing boxes of apples; Fuu-chan putting out the flags in front of their noodle stand. There is a chill breeze blowing down from the Mikuni Pass, and a hawk is riding it in slow circles over the fields, hunting for the small animals that move through the stubble, nibbling on the remains of the harvest.

At the market I fill my basket with a variety of local produce, leafy Daikon and Komatsuna from Kitano-san, Honda Kazuko-san’s Yuzu, Garlic from Umezawa-san, Tomozawa-san’s Chilli Pepper, Ukon powder (turmeric) from Harasawa-san, and some Shiitake from Tsukiyono. 

“Good morning.” says the lady at the counter as I put my basket of goodies down.

“Good morning!” I reply, “Wasn’t that wind cold this morning?” I hang my empty bag over the edge of the basket as she begins passing the produce through the checkout.

“Yes, indeed! But it’s brought out the Autumn colours on the mountains beautifully!”

“They’re spectacular, aren’t they?” I say as I open my wallet and start sorting through my coins.

“That’ll be ¥2,744, thanks.” 

I put a ten-thousand yen note in the tray, “Just a sec, I may have the right change.”

She waits patiently as I fat fingeredly fumble around trying to get the exact coinage. “Close!” I exclaim, pouring a fifty yen coin and four ones into the tray.

She smiles as she gives me my change, and we exchange our thanks as I put it away, then I pack my groceries into my cloth bag, slide the empty basket into it’s rack, give her a smile and wave as I leave the market. On the way home I get a bag of apples from Honda-san, with a friendly little chat that follows a similar pattern. She pops a few extra scarred apples into the bag.

“Oh, thanks!” I say. “Say ‘Hi’ to your dad for me!”

I’ll take them a small jar of Apple Chutney later.

The hawk swoops into a dry rice paddy as I pass, rising again moments later with something small and struggling in its talons. It must be dinner time…

A home cooked meal is an intimate way of saying, “I love you.” The hand crafted vessel adds the art of nature to the everyday, and enriches the life of those who serve and those who are served. Every aspect of my life is interwoven in the creation of these works, and I am blessed to be able to share this beauty with the people I love. 

  

I wash some rice and put it in the suihanki with some ukon to cook while I prepare dinner on the wood stove. A bit of olive oil in the frypan, some garlic, ginger and chilli pepper. Onion that Mika’s father grew, some mince meat from the freezer, the green leaves from the daikon, red capsicum, apple, cumin, coriander, cloves, and cinnamon. Finally I add home made yoghurt and leave it to simmer down until it is thick, while I go and light the wood fired bath.

Mika comes home to a house full of the fragrance of spices and wood smoke, and I serve the Curry onto a bed of Turmeric Rice in my new plates. We share a goblet of white wine as we dine, and she regales about her adventures at the library. In a book it would probably say that I hang upon her every word…but that’s not quite the way it is. It is good to listen to someone that you love speak honestly and openly about all their thoughts and feelings, knowing how cathartic it can be, yourself, when someone whom you love and trust listens sincerely. Her story winds down about halfway through the second cup of wine.

“How was your day?” She asks.

I smile…