Bleeding Love (for Clay): Why I’ve Stopped Cleaning My Wheel

“I keep bleeding, I keep, keep bleeding love…”

Leona Lewis wasn’t singing about pottery—but she might as well have been.

As you might have been on my social post yesterday, it’s been a few weeks since I last sat at my wheel. Life, puppies, studio rearranges, a small forest of weeds in the garden, and that quiet tug of resistance that grows louder the longer you’re away. You know the one. The longer you avoid a thing, the more mythical and intimidating it becomes.

So when I finally threw a mug again, it wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t graceful. It definitely wasn’t like riding a bike. My hands were shaky. The clay was stubborn. And that quiet inner voice—the one who wears a clipboard and a judgmental smirk—kept saying, “You’ve lost it.”

But then Leona’s voice filled the studio.

“You cut me open…”

Yeah. That’s it. That’s exactly what it feels like—every time I come back to clay. I don’t ease into it; I fling myself at it like a teenager in a Young Adult novel. Dramatic. All in. No chill. I bleed love for this muddy, unpredictable medium.

And yet—I ghost it.

I ignore the wheel for weeks. I prioritise everything else. I tidy the studio before I throw. I tell myself I need a full afternoon or nothing at all. Perfectionism, that old shape-shifter, sneaks in dressed as discipline.

So I’ve started doing something new:

I don’t clean my wheel at the end of the day or week even.

That’s it. No big ritual. No fresh start. Just a deliberately dirty splash pan.

Because if my wheel is already a mess, I’m more likely to sit down and make another one. There’s no pressure to make it perfect. No fear of ruining a clean space. No inner critic in pearls muttering, “This isn’t worthy of a tidy wheel.” Just me and the clay and Leona Lewis reminding me that love—real love—is messy.

It’s not that I’ve forgotten how to throw. It’s just that muscle memory needs a little coaxing when you’ve been away. Like a friend you haven’t called in a while. You worry the spark is gone, but the moment you’re together again—it’s still there. A little rusty, maybe. But real.

So here I am. Back at the wheel. Not because I’ve mastered the art of consistency. Not because I have perfect technique.

But because I’m still bleeding love—for clay, for the process, for the magic that lives in the mess.

And this time, I’m not cleaning it up too fast.

Studio Notes:

Yes, I did throw a mug while singing along to Bleeding Love at full volume.

No, the mug wasn’t perfect. But it held.

Yes, my wheel is still dirty. And yes, I plan to keep it that way (for now).

If you’ve been avoiding the thing you love because it’s been a while, this is your gentle nudge. The first time back might be wobbly. That’s okay. You’re not rusty. You’re ripening.

Want more muddy confessions, slow studio rhythms, and soundtrack-worthy pottery metaphors?

Sign up to my newsletter, The Whistleblower, and let’s keep bleeding love for the handmade.

Until next time,
Nawsheen, your friendly homebody artist from Murrumbateman.

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