Hey here's a fun little tidbit: I was approached by Redfin to give a comment regarding decorating with pottery for their blog. You can find the article here. I was one of several potters mentioned in the article, and there's some great advice there.

My little piece of advice was to consider using handmade lidded jars as "statement pieces" in living rooms.  We recently put a large jar in our living space and I really love it's presence: both sculptural and contemplative. 

 A few weekends ago I spent the morning with Elaine preparing the garden for the winter. As I was working, I noticed a butterfly weed seed pod that had broken open from the overnight chill, exposing the silky fluff attached to the seeds. I happened to be there just at the time the pod had opened but before the wind had started to scatter the seeds all throughout the neighborhood.

As I took a photo, I began to realize what an apropos metaphor this little seed pod was for how we are feeling as a family this November. It turns out every one of us is in some state of significant transition, and we are heading into the winter waiting to see which way the wind will blow. In some cases, the waiting brings with it eager anticipation (Sam applying for college), and in others it creates anxiety (major budget cuts, including faculty layoffs, are going to be announced this week at my college.)

​So, uncertainty abounds, and with it some anxiety and fear. But also hopefulness. And optimism.  I have put a lot of thought into what role my little pottery and art business might have in all this. What would it look like to go full time? Wholesale or retail? What role might teaching, or mentoring, have in my future business? Online, or brick and mortar location? SO many possibilities, so many “seeds.” When do I know it’s the right time to go for it? Is there a right time to go for it?
 
As I thought about those little butterfly weed seeds, I remembered something else. Like most of the plants native to this area, those seeds need the cold winter months in order to germinate. If you collect the seeds, bring them inside, and plant them in the Spring, you don’t get plants- at least for a year. The seeds are not just designed to survive the winter, they actually need it.
 
And maybe that’s the case with all of my little “seeds” for future possibilities. As tempting as it is to make a decision just to relieve the stress of the uncertainty, maybe living in the uncertainty is my “winter,” which will allow the right seeds to sprout. Maybe what’s needed more than a decision is patience.
 
As we head into the Christmas season, I am reminded that Advent is designed to be a season of anticipatory and even anxious waiting. Then Christmas arrives: the light of the world arriving in the darkest of winter.  I have a feeling that this year those two seasons are going to have more meaning for me than usual.

For those of you who don't know me yet, I've prepared a little game of Four Truths and a Lie (a classic icebreaker). Four of the statements about me below are true, and one is not. See if you can spot the lie. Answers below the photo. 
 
1.I once had a job as a cartoon character
2.I was once in a Christian rock band.
3.I make a mean BBQ pulled pork
4.I speak Mandarin fluently
5.I do not have a “green thumb”

  
Answers:

1. I once had a job as a cartoon character: TRUE
My first “real” job, actually. I worked as a cartoon character at Carowinds Theme Park. I would put on the suit, usually Scooby Doo, Yogi Bear, or Hong Kong Phooey (does anyone else remember Hong Kong Phooey?). Although most of my artwork has a meditative/ contemplative quality, I do have a have a zany, rather animated side which comes out from time to time.

2. I was once in a Christian rock band: TRUE
This one is a little embarrassing, but true. My first band, while I was in high school. I have a photo. We were not particularly good, largely because I was not good at keyboards. But it was one of my first experiences taking art making seriously, and it whet my appetite for a life of creative practice. And it highlights two things that have continued to be important to me: faith and music. Plus, it was a great way to spend time with good friends.

Here I am in the band Alliance. Guess which one is me. Not pictured: the wildly talented Doug Davis

3. I make a mean BBQ pulled pork: TRUE
Although I live in the Midwest, my roots go back to the Carolinas for several generations. So when we moved here 17 years ago, I realized I was going to have to learn how to make my favorite Southern comfort foods, including good BBQ. I enjoy cooking, a trait I seem to share with many potters. Which has always made me wonder: do potters like to cook because they make pots, or do they make pots because they like to cook?

4. I speak Mandarin fluently: FALSE
I wish this were true. Even after two summers in China as an artist-in-residence at the Dunhuang Creative Center, I can’t get the hang of Mandarin. But I really loved my time there, and the friendships I have from that experience.

I consider myself incredibly fortunate that my artistic practice has taken me to other countries: China, Indonesia, and Switzerland, to name a few. As a kid I stayed almost entirely in the Carolinas, so I never dreamed I would have the kind of experiences I have had as an adult.

You can read more about my time in China here and here.
​
5. I do not have a “green thumb”: TRUE
If you have followed me on social media you may already know that I am pretty passionate about gardening, so you would think that I’ve got a natural talent for making things grow. I assure you that I do not. Many, many plants have died under my care over the years. I have made all the mistakes in the book, and a few that no one ever thought to write down. Any success I have as a gardener is the result of research, trial and error, and sheer stubbornness. The same is true for my artwork. I have never been the most naturally talented person in the room: as a student, as an artist, or as a professor. What I do have is loads of curiosity, a love of process, and a little patience. Turns out those traits are pretty good for making art and growing plants.

​While many of you in different parts of the country (I'm looking at you, Carolinas) have been basking in Spring temperatures for a month or more, we are still eagerly anticipating the true start of Spring. We have the occasional teasing sunny days with highs in the 60s, but they are interspersed with cold rainy days in the low 40s. This is April in the Midwest, and to be honest it has been more difficult for this Southern-born boy to adjust to these weather conditions than to winter's extreme cold. I am embarrassed to discover how much my mood is affected by the daily changes in the weather. Every warm/ sunny day I’m bright, cheery, and optimistic. Every day I wake up to overcast skies and frost on the windshield I’m grumpy and miserable. This is a bit of an over-simplification, but the impulse towards those two poles is there and is surprisingly powerful. I can look at the forecast and know what’s coming, and try to brace myself for it, but it happens nonetheless.
 
I have lived here for seventeen years now, seventeen years, and I certainly know what to expect in April. Yet I always find myself on this emotional roller coaster. I guess I have some version of Seasonal Affective Disorder (S.A.D.), where my mood is affected less by a season than by the day-to-day variations within a season: I’m just as likely to be happy as sad.
 
This April, in reflecting on this crazy condition, I’ve come to think of it as oddly comforting (although still annoying). So much of what I do with my artistic practice is to seek to find the extraordinary in the ordinary, which is to say I’m seeking the intersection of the physical and the spiritual. If the two are inter-connected, as I believe they are, then it is only natural that changes in my physical environment are going to affect my state of being. If l I am more sensitive to these changes than the average person (I suspect I am, although I don’t know for sure), perhaps that is less an indication of a problem and more an indication that I am learning how to be truly present in the world.  If that is the case, then instead of telling myself to “just get over it," I can allow myself to affirm those feelings, to let them flow through me, and even be a little grateful for them, even in the midst of my occasional grumpiness.

February has been a month of reflecting and planning, prompted by a post-tenure review at work. Part fo the review is to look back over the past five years of teaching and scholarship. 

While putting together the dossier for the review is a bit of a hassle, I must admit the process has been both challenging and rewarding. At times I get so focussed on my immediate projects that I forget to both celebrate past accomplishments. So consider this a celebration. Here's a few of my favorite projects from the past five years. 

​1. Dunhuang Artist Residency. Summer 2016 and Summer 2017
I've written about this experience a few times on my blog, but it remains one of the most powerful artistic and cultural experiences in my life. I am incredibly thankful I was able to go twice and for all the people I met from both China and the US. And for the challenge of making a body of work in reaction to a new place and culture in the moment. That has really informed my art practice. 

2. American Craft Show: Baltimore 2020.
This is a show that I had long desired to be in. I made the wait list back in 1998, but never quite made it in several years of trying. After not applying for 20 years I decided to give it a go (I had a sabbatical which made it possible to attend) and was selected.  The show was February of 2020, so it was the last show I did before quarantine. 

3. Consider installation. Two-person show Bees: an exhibition with Craig Goodworth.  Calvin College, 2019
This was a wonderful show to be a part of. Not only was I able to show with Craig, but the exhibit was curated by friend and former colleague Brent Williams. For me the show represented the completion of Consider, which I feel was the most successful installation of the bee projects. 

4. Writing and Presenting at Conferences.
I am surprised to see how much writing and presenting I've done in the past few years. I wouldn't say either are my strong suit, but I'm interested in exploring these areas more. Most recently I was a keynote speaker at the CIVA conference in Austin and contributed to The Everlasting People by my brilliant friend Matt Milliner.  

5. Wait. Repeat. Two-person exhibition with Krista Brand. Wheaton College, 2021.
The exhibition was a delight on many levels. I was able to collaborate and exhibit with a former student of mine who is now both an amazing artist and professor. In the process I learned a lot that was helpful in  my own practice. Plus I used the deadline as motivation to complete a few works that had sat unfinished in the studio for years. 

​It’s been an up-and-down week, in an up-and-down month, in an up-and-down year. And we’re just getting started.
 
Anyone else feeling it?
 
In January, I fired some new work, both pottery and sculpture, and I was really excited about the results (see below). But when I entered the work into juried shows, it was rejected. (I guess it was more officially “not accepted,” but it felt more like “rejected.”) I started some new larger vessel forms, which at first were coming out great, but recently they are collapsing before I get them completed.
 
I feel like just as I start to get a little momentum, a roadblock appears. Perhaps I’ve had my expectations too high, or my ego was a little too inflated. Or maybe I’m just trying too hard. Perhaps it’s just the “yet-another-winter-in-the-middle-of-a-pandemic blahs.” Whatever it is, the experience has surprised me. I am having to fight the urge to throw up my hands and give in to the frustration.
 
I won’t do that, of course. I have had enough experience to know that rejection and frustration are part of the process, and that I need to step back, to see the bigger picture, and to focus on the long-term goals as opposed to the short-term obstacles. I also know that for me, the periods where I feel most unsure often signal the beginning of a period of growth.  Even so, I’m tired. I have been aware that many of my students have been on edge over the past year, but maybe I haven’t been quite as aware that I, too, am a little on edge. I probably need to slow down a little, do a little more self-care, and let a few things go.
 
So, yeah, if you are feeling any piece of that “up-and-down-ness” at the beginning of 2022 as well, know that you are not alone. I think we could all use a win, even a little one. Which has me thinking…
 
When does Spring start, again?

​I will remember 2021 was the year that our garden took over.
 
Perhaps it’s no accident that this was also a very difficult year for me personally. I will not deny that the garden provided a kind of escape for me, a sanctuary; a place I could go and lose myself for an hour or a day. But it was so much more than that. There is a lot of wisdom in a garden, wisdom that comes mostly through one’s hands and not through one’s head. The wisdom I found there goes well beyond knowledge of how to grow plants successfully. I believe most of these lessons apply to my art practice, and probably the rest of my life as well.  Here’s some of the lessons the garden taught me this year:

• Planning is essential. So is improvisation. 
  Those of you who know me already know planning is not my strong suit. I have dabbled in gardening for many years now, but everything changed when we hired a landscape designer to help us turn our front yard into a native plant garden (goodnaturedlandscapes.com/). She not only planned the plantings, she designed pathways and a seating area. She turned the garden into a place: not just something to look at, but a space to dwell. That was a huge insight for me, and that allowed me to do the same for the back yard. Planning gave me a vision, and took the guesswork and stress out of every little decision. 
  
  Improvisation is my strong suit, and it is also necessary. There were times when the plans called for plants that failed, or couldn't be found. There were also plants I had that were thriving that were not part of the plans. While I stuck to the plan as much as possible, I also gave myself the freedom to "riff" a little.  That has made it more personal- which reminds me of another key lesson from the garden that I learned: a garden is really a reflection of the gardener. Elaine noticed this right away. She has told visitors that you can really see how I think by walking through the garden. I found that to be a little scary, but she's right. 
  
  
• You can only do what you can do. And that’s enough.
  I started out in the garden all Gung-ho: just me, a fancy new wheelbarrow, a couple of shovels, elbow grease, and gritty determination. It took about three weeks before I was in physical therapy for strained rotator cuffs in both shoulders. I had to learn the hard way to accept my limitations.  Learning that (as much as I have learned it) has been a bit of a blessing. Doing less labor means sitting and watching the garden more. The whole family has pitched in to move mulch, stone, and do the weeding, and I love that they are invested in the space. Speaking of weeds, sometimes I let the weeds go for awhile, and they turn out to be lovely. (Except for creeping Charlie- that stuff is the worst!). Given time, the plants will grow and spread, and the bare patches will take care of themselves. There is so much abundance in the garden, sometimes you just have to let go and let it do its thing. 
  
• Feed the soil, not the plant 
  This is an adage that is part of permaculture gardening, and I am already seeing how true it is. Areas where I have been feeding the soil and leaving it undisturbed for three years are the areas where plants just explode out of the ground. The beds I prepared in the past year are still doing well, but nothing like the older beds. I've been thinking of how this might apply to other areas of my life. In my art practice,at times I think too much about "feeding the plant" (growing the business) and not "feeding the soil" (making the things that feed my soul, generate new ideas, resting). I'm trying to shift that focus, but it's difficult for me. 
  
• For God’s sake, don’t make everything practical 
  In the vegetable garden I am always tempted to make sure every square inch of soil grows something edible, in spite of all the books that recommend growing flowers like marigolds which help with pest prevention. This year, with the expanded vegetable garden, I gave myself permission to grow sunflowers, marigolds, and zinnias, as well as a few flowering natives. I am so happy I finally made that decision! While it's true that those plants turned out to be practical in a way (increased pollinators) the real benefit was to me. I cannot tell you how much joy those flowers gave me. I spent hours back there- reading, watching the hummingbirds, and just sitting. I really wanted to just be in the presence of those flowers, to bask in their beauty and abundance. You can bet I'll be planting more flowers in the Spring. 
  
• Gardens are not just about beauty, they are about hope.
  We are all used to seeing images of gardens in there full glory, and when I started gardening I would pour through those images and think to myself  "yes- I want that!" Of course, when I actually started to garden, I was putting tiny seeds or seedings into the ground. That majesty I envisioned seemed impossibly far away. I learned that you have to embrace the promise and the mystery of the plant. How is it possible that a seed barely bigger than a grain of sand can grow into an 8' tall okra plant? Is it going to grow at all? The inevitable answer is "wait and see." That is a hopeful answer. Often that hope is rewarded. But sometimes there is disappointment when the plant doesn't grow. But even then that disappointment comes with a gentle prodding: "why don't you try again?"  I am very thankful for that sense of hope, and for the sense of wonder that goes with it.