December in the studio is equal parts clay-covered chaos and surprising moments of stillness. This piece explores how pottery — with its slow processes, patient rhythm, and grounding rituals — offers an antidote to the rush of the season. It’s a reflection on choosing calm over pressure, creativity over perfection, and how handmade practices help us reconnect to what truly matters in the holidays.

December can feel overwhelming — sales, shopping lists, and expectations stacked higher than a kiln load in holiday mode. This blog offers a gentler path, exploring why small-batch ceramics and handmade gifts resonate so deeply at this time of year. From slow crafting to meaningful giving, it’s an invitation to step back, breathe, and choose intention. Discover why supporting small makers isn’t about consumption — it’s about connection.

It’s been a week since that little shiny trophy wandered into my life — popping up on typewriters, garden weeds, and anywhere River Song and Wilfred could sniff it. But once the sparkle settled, I realised this win wasn’t just mine. It belonged to the kids who opened up during Clay Together, the adults who found belonging in workshops, and this beautiful Whistle & Page family that has shaped the heart of my studio. A year into full-time artistry, this award feels like a quiet nudge from the universe saying, “Yes. Keep going.”

As the last kiln of the year hums in the TARDIS studio, I’m reflecting on how November invites us to slow down instead of speeding up. This post explores craft, community, and the gentle art of not overfilling our plates as the festive season approaches.

Tea in Bangladesh has always been more than tea — it’s a language of warmth and belonging. From the earthy matir bhar cups of chaiwallahs to the handmade Cosy Cups I shape in my Australian studio, this ritual connects my Bangladeshi roots to my creative life here. In this story, I reflect on how tea, clay, and memory meet — how every sip, every cup, and every pause becomes a bridge between worlds.

When I left my corporate job, I didn’t have a plan — just clay, curiosity, and a quiet calling. A year on, I’ve learned that building a creative life isn’t about escaping the world, but reshaping it. Millennials like me grew up between slow and fast, analogue and digital, meaning and metrics. Now, we’re learning to create our own pace — to live slowly, intentionally, and wholeheartedly. This is the story of handbuilding a life.

Late October in Murrumbateman is all blossom confetti, tomato seedlings and buzzing bees—not pumpkins. But scroll through your feed, and it’s all ghosts in orange hats and ceramic bats perched on mugs. It’s a reminder that the internet’s seasons don’t always match the soil beneath our feet. This year, instead of squeezing my art into the northern hemisphere’s autumn aesthetic, I’m making spring ghosts—playful little spirits with straw hats and seed packets. They’re a love letter to authenticity, even when the algorithm whispers otherwise.

Pick up a handmade mug, and you’re holding history. Clay has carried stories for 30,000 years—from ancient Japanese vessels to Greek amphorae and Bangladeshi cooking pots. In Australia, Indigenous practices remind us that creativity takes many forms. Every handmade piece we use today continues this human story, connecting our hands to earth, fire, and time itself. Pottery isn’t just functional—it is a vessel of culture, memory, and meaning.

Being an artist in 2025 means living in two worlds: one ruled by algorithms and endless content, the other by clay and fire. Pottery doesn’t bend to speed — a mug takes weeks, not seconds, to exist. Its cracks and wobbles aren’t flaws, but fingerprints of real life. This blog explores the radical act of making by hand in a digital age: mugs as anchors in a rushing world, imperfection as proof of humanity, and why clay resists the very systems that try to flatten us.

Every curve of the Whistle & Page logo carries meaning. Born during maternity leave, amidst the shifts of Matrescence, the logo embodies breath, rhythm, and gathering. The whistle calls people together and echoes the comforting sound of a kettle. The prominent ampersand, shaped like a kettle with spouted pages, bridges art & life, stories & pottery, possibility & connection. Encircled in a timeless circle, it symbolises community, wholeness, and ancient practices of crafting together. For its creator, the logo represents more than design—it’s a living emblem of love, creativity, and shared space.

Days after my 40th birthday, I’m reflecting on my last year of being in my 30s—a year of messy courage, wholehearted choices, and bold leaps. I walked away from a toxic job, embraced my creativity, and invested in my small business, Whistle & Page. It wasn’t about paychecks or perfection; it was about clay-stained hands, quiet mornings with my kids, and building a life that feels truly mine. Raw, funny, heartfelt, and liberating, this year was my final, beautiful chapter before stepping into 40 with joy, resilience, and freedom.

In a world obsessed with speed, growth, and disposability, taking weeks to make a single pot is radical. Every handbuilt mug resists the culture of convenience, mass production, and endless consumption. Pottery asks for patience, care, and presence, reminding us that slowing down is revolutionary. Choosing handmade isn’t nostalgia—it’s resistance, a quiet reclaiming of value, soul, and human connection in daily life.

Potters often get asked to justify their pricing, as though handmade pieces must prove their worth in ways mass-produced goods never do. A $65 mug can feel extravagant in today’s economy—but what does it really represent? Beyond clay and glaze, it carries the invisible weight of labour, skill, time, and the courage to run a one-woman art business. This blog explores why handmade pottery costs what it does, what goes into each piece, and why perhaps the question isn’t “why so much?” but “why so little?” when we consider the true value of craft.

Potters often get asked to justify their pricing, as though handmade pieces must prove their worth in ways mass-produced goods never do. A $65 mug can feel extravagant in today’s economy—but what does it really represent? Beyond clay and glaze, it carries the invisible weight of labour, skill, time, and the courage to run a one-woman art business. This blog explores why handmade pottery costs what it does, what goes into each piece, and why perhaps the question isn’t “why so much?” but “why so little?” when we consider the true value of craft.

Pottery is often sold as slow art—measured, intentional, rooted in earth and time. Yet online, it’s sped up, polished, and compressed into 20-second reels. Mugs painted in acrylics, cracks fixed with pastes like Bisque Fix, and influencers assuring, “It’s not a skill thing.” But is that true? Pottery influencers have opened clay to new audiences, but they’re also reshaping how we see craft. Is repair the same as resilience? Is speed harmless, or does it change the way we value clay itself? In a world built on fast scrolls, how do we preserve the meaning of slow hands?

Eleven years ago, I became a first-time parent — not just to a little boy, but to a dream. Whistle & Page was built in the stolen hours of early motherhood, with clay on my hands and courage in my chest. This is the story of how I learned to back myself, build a soulful business from scratch, and reparent the parts of me that never believed this kind of life was possible.

There’s a lovelybeauty in things that don’t last — the fleeting bloom of dahlias, petals drifting like soft confetti in the autumn breeze. I used to cling to permanence, to perfect mugs and endless seasons with my child. But pottery and life have taught me to lean into mono no aware — the tender ache of impermanence that makes every moment more precious.

Some cups hold more than tea. They carry kitchens from our childhood, quiet acts of kindness, and mornings wrapped in fog. My favourite cup isn’t perfect, but it holds memory, comfort, and grief in equal measure — a reminder that what we hold often holds us right back.

Sometimes the things that hold us together are so small, they slip by unnoticed. The whisper of a kettle before it boils. The tilt of a child’s head over her paints. The sigh of a dog settling in the mudroom. These moments will never make the calendar, yet they stitch my life in ways the big milestones never could. Pottery has taught me this — that quiet, unremarkable moments often leave the deepest marks.

A behind-the-scenes look into the creation of The Rooted Rituals Collection — a seasonal, Japanese-inspired body of work designed to honour the small, essential rituals that bring beauty to daily life.