Dear Maker,

In my last letter, I shared about Priya Parker's work on how having a specific and unique purpose can be the key to transforming a gathering.

For my recent workshop, I had started with the purpose of bringing together folks to create the type of gathering that I would like to attend:

a small group, in a cozy and welcoming environment, where our bellies would be nourished with yummy food, and there'd be more real talk than small talk, all while getting our hands muddy in clay.

But what happens when your purpose needs to shift?

Last week, in the lead up to my planned workshop, there was a senseless tragedy on Haida Gwaii.

A profound thing about living on this small archipelago of only around 5000 people (spread over a handful of communities) is that loss and grief becomes collectively felt, even if you aren't directly connected to those involved.

As local events started to be cancelled or postponed out of respect, I took a few days to decide on if I would move forward with hosting the workshop that weekend.

And I decided I would, but with an amended purpose…

I sent a new invitation by way of email to those signed up, acknowledging the tenderness of that moment in time.

I wrote that:

"In times of grief and heaviness, art can offer a quiet place to land. This is a gentle invitation to come as you are, to find comfort in the rhythm of making, and to reconnect with the grounding act of working with your hands."

I also gave the option to opt out and have a full refund if attending didn't feel right at that time. That there would be more pottery workshops to come, and to do whatever felt best for them. (No one did).

And what unfolded during our Sunday afternoon together was something deeply meaningful.

We began with introductions that invited everyone to share stories of memorable childhood meals (since we were making serving platters). These stories brought laughter, nostalgia, and an immediate sense of connection.

As we gathered around the tables, rolling out our slabs of clay, sipping tea, nibbling on freshly baked scones, the workshop became a gentle sanctuary.

The rhythm of our hands working with the clay seemed to provide exactly what was needed: space to be present with our feelings, present with each other, while still moving forward through the simple act of creating.

Sometimes the most meaningful gatherings are those that respond to what's actually happening in our lives and communities, rather than sticking rigidly to the original plan.

By shifting the "why" of the gathering, the workshop took on a deeper significance that I couldn't have anticipated when I first planned it.

And while many creative retreats promise the benefit of "disconnecting," what happened was quite the opposite: we connected.

We connected to new faces and old friends.

We connected to our hands by way of working with the clay.

We connected to our shared humanity through both grief and creativity.

I'm grateful to everyone who showed up, just as they were, and contributed to the quiet power of that afternoon.

And I’m grateful that everyone who was patient with me, as I did my best to facilitate a new workshop (with a somewhat over-ambitious project), with timings that were challenged by the extra gentle pace we were all needing.

There will be more workshops in the coming months, but this one will always stand out as a reminder of how art and community can hold us through difficult times.

I'm curious, how has making with your hands, or engaging with art in any form, helped you navigate challenging moments in your life?

Take care,

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