The Last Kiln Before Summer: A November Reflection on Craft, Community & Not Overfilling Our Plates

There’s a particular kind of November light at The Hyland Hills — that soft, hopeful shimmer that lands on the gumtrees just after 6am, when the air is still cool enough that you pull on a jumper but warm enough that you know you’ll be in short sleeves by lunchtime. It’s the golden hour of the year, really. The hinge before the chaos.

And in my studio — the so-called TARDIS — November means one thing: the last big kiln before summer.

There’s something almost ceremonial about it. The careful stacking. The small intake of breath when I close the door. The little whisper of please behave I give the glazes, because at this time of year, they have opinions. Petrichor especially loves to drip dramatically when I least expect it.

But this November, more than the pots, I’ve been thinking about the rush.

The world seems to go from zero to Mariah Carey in about four seconds. Sales everywhere. Countdown timers. People racing through shopping centres as though Santa himself is giving out gold stars for speed.

But here in the studio? I’m choosing not to overfill my plate. Not with extras, not with pressure, not with unrealistic expectations that small handmade businesses must operate like big-box giants.

November is my reminder that meaningful making requires space. Space for the clay to move. Space for me to breathe. Space for connection with the people who value what I do, not the idea of a bargain.

So as the last kiln warms the room and the dogs stretch out on the cool concrete, I’m holding onto this:

We don’t need more. We just need enough.

And maybe a mug of something warm in a piece that was made slowly, thoughtfully, with real hands and muddy fingerprints.

Thanks for being here for another turn around the sun.

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