Begin…again.

In the aftermath of the pandemic, my path abruptly was torn from me. I had always dreamed of empowering marginalized women in India through a social enterprise, but that dream had to be set aside. With the support of my life partner, we started a venture that many thought was crazy. We built a supply chain from scratch, which was not a common choice. We faced unexpected challenges and had to rely on our instincts to navigate through. Despite our lack of experience, we managed to establish 250 stores that showcased our creations worldwide. Our journey wasn't just about successes; it was also about tears, resilience, and brief moments of happiness. Our business didn't fall because we gave up, but because circumstances beyond our control led to its closure. It was a painful end, but it turned out to be a blessing in disguise. The closure, though unexpected, brought us the most valuable lesson - a mix of hardship and grace.

It is from this place that I rediscovered my true self and identity as an artist. I’ve never called myself one. I’ve always called myself a creative, designer, but artist, that was left to a sacred group of die-hards that cloistered themselves to studios and poverty. Well, at least that’s what my parents warned me about.

But in my sabbatical, that is what my hands and heart wanted to do. I painted my emotions as a form of therapy and then somehow I was roped into throwing on a wheel for the first time by a friend of mine. It was there that I was faced to reckon with more than just painting something on a 2D surface. I had to negotiate a big ball of mud in my hands while utilizing the centripital force of a wheel to somehow form a bowl, cup or vessel of sorts? Comical to say the least. I was the last one to learn how to center while my tiny little Spanish friend was commanding tall pots right in front of my eyes. Learning something again for the first time was humbling. Trying to eek out every particle of this lump of clay to just center into a perfect mound was a feat almost as great as Everest. My instructor informed me that it wasn’t the power in just my hands, but my whole body. Who knew that art involved my whole body, let alone an aching one at the end of the day.

It was here that I realized at the wheel, my mind had to be focused on one singular thing, or else my meanderings of my mind would show in the clay. Malcolm Gladwell’s very well-known fact of 10,000 hours to mastery rung true to me in this medium. I was determined that I was ready to scale this clay mountain of 9,990 hours left to go however long it took me.