Touch: Lessons from Clay

There is something about the softness of clay. We’re drawn to touch it, and in return, clay meets us with a deep sensitivity. As our hands press into the clay, we’re pulled out of the noise of everyday life, invited to explore a language that speaks without words. Through touch and form, we come into a quiet dialogue with clay—a material that, like us, holds memory.

In class, I always remind everyone to be kind to their hands. We use them all the time—moving, typing, lifting—but rarely for something where the mind steps aside and lets them lead. Our hands are the language of the soul, where the brain has no domain and words fall short. Before we begin, we take a moment to breathe together, to root ourselves in a calm, open space. This simple exercise serves as a gentle reminder to keep breathing as we work the clay. Often, we get so immersed in the process that we forget to breathe, as if holding onto that moment of connection, fully alive in the act.

One of clay’s most remarkable qualities is its memory. Every impression, each stroke or press, leaves a trace. The clay keeps a record of our efforts, our patience, and even our mistakes, mirroring the parts of ourselves we may have buried beneath the layers of our busy lives. Just as clay remembers each handprint, we too hold memories, sometimes hidden, that shape who we are. Working with clay stirs these memories, revealing glimpses of our past and of emotions we didn’t realise we were still holding. Pottery becomes an emotional act as much as a physical one, inviting us to reconnect, to release, and to heal.

Creating with clay is like learning a new language—the language of the hands. Our hands have a knowledge all their own, one that our minds don’t always understand, and pottery gives them a way to speak.

Creating with clay is like learning a new language—the language of the hands. Our hands have a knowledge all of their own, one that our minds don’t always understand, and pottery gives them a way to speak. As our hands move across the clay, shaping and molding, we learn to let them lead. This tactile, intuitive process allows emotions to emerge that might otherwise stay hidden, inviting expression through the shapes we create.

Through pottery, we also learn acceptance. Clay has a life of its own; it doesn’t always bend to our plans. Pieces crack, slump, or turn out differently than we imagined. But this is part of the beauty—letting go of perfection and embracing the unexpected. Each piece becomes a reminder that imperfections are natural, that beauty often lies in the asymmetrical, and that every creation has its own unique story.

In this way, pottery becomes a journey of self-acceptance. As we learn to accept the quirks in the clay, we begin to accept our own. Just as clay holds the memory of our hands, we, too, can hold the memory of our whole, imperfect selves—unhidden and beautifully true.

In this way, pottery becomes a journey of self-acceptance. As we learn to accept the quirks in the clay, we begin to accept our own. Each time we shape a piece, we return to ourselves, reclaiming memories and parts of ourselves that may have been hidden. And just as clay holds the memory of our hands, we, too, can hold the memory of our whole, imperfect selves—unhidden and beautifully true.