The path on one Friday morning wasn't just a stretch of earth, it was an invitation to return to the source.
For twenty-five years, my life was measured in floor plans, project timelines, and the precise click of a shutter. It was a life of building for others, of capturing their light and managing their structures. But as the Cape mist settled low over the valley and the drizzle softened the horizon, I felt the shift.
It was a quiet "aha" moment, not a loud realization, but a steady, grounding pull.
I realized that to truly create meaning, I had to return to my own roots. I had to step away from the noise of the "finished project" and put my hands back into the earth. Creating for myself isn't about the destination anymore; it’s about the tactile memory of the clay and the slow, intentional rhythm of the pinch.
I am setting my roots deep into this valley, finding my voice in the white translucency of porcelain and the wild resilience of the fynbos. The path ahead is unhurried, and for the first time, I am exactly where I need to be.
Back to the source. Back to the making.