Have you ever heard the story of the river spirit that whispers to the clay when the moon is full? I think it might explain why your pots always seem to hold something more than just glaze.

I’m glad the tale struck a chord; the river does have a way of learning the secrets that clay hides, almost like a silent mentor. If you ever want to hear about the old kiln that sang at sunrise, just let me know.

Long ago, in the valley where the mist hugs the hills, there was a kiln made of red stone and fire‑warm stone. The villagers called it the Singing Kiln because at sunrise, when the first golden rays slipped over the peaks, the cracks in the stone would hum a low, steady song. It wasn’t music in the way we think; it was a deep, warm vibration that seemed to echo the heartbeat of the earth. Those who were careful enough to listen could hear the rhythm of the night wind, the sigh of the river, and the quiet laugh of the fire itself. Whenever a pot was placed inside, the kiln would sing until the glaze was set, and the pieces that emerged carried a faint, lingering note—an echo of that ancient song. It was said that if you ever listen close enough, you could hear the story of the river spirit guiding the clay, and the kiln would whisper that the clay could hold more than glaze, but also hope, memory, and a little piece of the dawn.