Note: This is a reflection after my wood firing experience in June 2025 -

For some time now, I’ve been trying to understand what draws me to ceramics—what keeps me going back to the wheel. What keeps me going, even when I’m tired. Even on a hangover. Even when others are out enjoying the sun.

What is this force that brings me back—again and again—to kneading clay, to sitting in awkward positions for hours, to fingers cramping, to hands worn raw by groggy clay? Even when the sun is shining—so rare and precious in this country—or when the studio is sweltering or freezing. My body aches. My mind tires.
And yet, I return. I do have a full-time job, so my time with clay is still limited.
But still, I’ve kept returning for the last ten years.

At first, I could call it a hobby—maybe an excessive one, but still a hobby.
Now? For some time, I knew it’s something different.
I think I can say it’s beyond that.

The shift began quietly, perhaps when I met Mama Aicha in Morocco (more on this at some point).
Then the pandemic arrived.
I was lucky—I had a job, a roof over my head, access to my studio (with some precautions).
But something universal happened: we were all, in some way, cut off from “home.”
For me, that meant Japan—Miyazaki, a small coastal city in southern Kyushu.

I’d never longed for home that way before.
That longing turned into a quiet obsession—with my culture, my roots..
The separation made it louder.

I’ve always been drawn to Japanese aesthetics—the quiet, the tactile, the honesty of material. (Or at least, that’s how I understood things growing up.)
The idea that every living thing holds its own spirit—that was always in the background of my upbringing. I knew that aesthetic had shaped my ceramics.
But for a long time, I hadn’t thought much more deeply than that.

This past weekend (13–15 June 2025), I joined a fast wood-firing workshop with my friends Karina and Bisila at the Oxford University Kilns. We didn’t quite know what to expect, but with curiosity and anticipation, we joined ten strangers, along with Robin, the director, and Ekta - both of them generously guided us throughout.

Bisila has written a beautiful piece about the experience, which I wholeheartedly agree with. I can’t write it better than she did—please read her piece (Riding the Flame).

The kilns and firing methods are rooted in the Japanese anagama tradition—a world that has always felt close and yet far. Something I was drawn to, but never had access to.
The communities around it often felt closed. Too revered. Too distant.
When Japan names some potters as 人間国宝—Living National Treasures—it can feel untouchable.
So learning ceramics in the UK, rediscovering parts of my own culture from outside, has become a quiet, humbling process of reflection.

But in front of the fire, that distance felt smaller. There was a moment—maybe between shifts, maybe during the quiet watching—when I felt unexpectedly close to something I didn’t even know I’d been missing. A kind of reconnection. As if tending the kiln connected me not only to the people beside me, but to something older, shared, and rooted in the part of me that grew up with these traditions—even if I never had direct access to them.

Those few days were intense—physically and emotionally.
It was raw. Primitive. And surprisingly thoughtful.

It stirred something deep in me. Thoughts I didn’t know were waiting. Or maybe I did, but I’d buried them. Now they’re all surfacing. And I feel exposed. So here I am, trying to process them with words.

What happened in just a few days—days I would have otherwise spent at the studio, running, cooking, catching up with friends?

Let’s talk about running.
I started during Covid. Growing up, I hated it. Forced school jogs with groups—it wasn’t for me.
I liked swimming—solitary, fluid.
Running felt punishing.

But during lockdown, it became my excuse to move, to be outside, to be alone.
Five years on, I’m still running.

Mostly in the mornings, when the streets are quiet. The air is fresh.
Sometimes, if I’m lucky, there’s a winter sunrise.
It’s a conversation—with my body, my mind. I never go far or fast (I don’t think I could), but it’s enough to wake me up.
And in that space, I notice things.
The weather.
The trees.
My body—am I tired? Did I sleep well?
Do I feel heavy—physically or mentally?

It’s a constant, subtle dialogue.
Like my morning writings —a place where thoughts are poured out.
Some stay with me. Some pass through.
Running has become as much a mental act as a physical one.

I’ve also come to realise that running strengthens my focus. It teaches me to stay with discomfort, to keep going.

That focus helps me sit at the wheel for hours—sometimes in awkward positions, sometimes frustrated.

It feeds back into the rhythm of my ceramic practice, quietly but steadily.

Back to firing. Day 2 of the workshop was firing day.
We fed the fire and steered the flames until they reached out the chimney.
We watched amber fields glowing in the kiln.
Beautiful. Terrifying. Hypnotic.

It required absolute focus for hours.
The fire could climb to over 1300°C.
It was intense—and yet, weirdly calming.
A strange kind of stillness inside the heat.

I was working alongside Evee, Jesse and Freddy —strangers a few days ago.
Without good communication and mutual care, the fire doesn’t work.
The flame needs all of us.

At some level, it felt like the only goal was to “ride” the flame.
That purpose stripped away all else.
In that simplicity, I felt something deeper. Still raw, and still unnamed.

Everything was physical.
You eat because you need fuel.
You hydrate because you feel your skin tightening from the heat.
You care for each other because you know what the heat takes.
The fire is intense—but also warm, human, generous.

There were similarities between making ceramics on the wheel, the run, and the fire.
The quiet. The intensity.
The private dialogue between body, material, environment.

In that heat, I felt connected — to the fire, to others, to something larger than myself. It caught me off-guard in the best way.

On the wheel, I’m in an intimate conversation with the clay.
My mind narrows to that point.
My fingers listen and respond.
It’s addictive.

But in the fire, that dialogue was magnified. Tenfold.
It felt elemental.
I moved before I thought.
There was no excess. Just being.

And that scared me a little.
Because in it, I felt completely naked.

I still feel a little shaken—this thought process caught me off-guard, and I’m still figuring out what to do with it.

Maybe my ceramic journey still counts as a hobby. Who knows.
But as Svend Bayer said in his talk—he never found another obsession.
And I haven’t either. (Whether I’m obsessed enough… that’s another question.)

What I know is this:
While I’m in it—while I’m learning, returning, moving through this process—
The sense of community, the people I meet, the space to be myself—
That’s what keeps bringing me back to the clay.
And I want to hold that close.

I hope to return to the wood firing experience again soon, and I’m excited (and a little scared) to see where it takes me next.

Thoughts on Fire / Run / Ceramics

Sayaka Namba Ceramics