Warmth. Light. Air. The sun pours life and energy from its lofty seat. A gentle pulsing echoes through each cell: exhale, inhale, exhale. I can feel the silent urging: open, open, open. Not yet,  I think.   Her hands are tentative as she holds me. Her fingers brush over me, soft as a breath. She is filled with anticipation. High expectations. I will be her first, she declares aloud to no one in particular. Two ants pause to exchange messages on a leaf stalk. I will be her fir

I wanted to write about an old potter who spent her life shaping clay with her hands.