As a studio artist, I’ve learned that my creative life is shaped as much by my inner world as by clay, tools, and technique.
What I bring into the studio — emotionally, physically, and relationally — shows up in the work. My energy, my boundaries, my capacity to listen, my willingness to pause — all of it matters.
Over time, I’ve come to see that one of the most important skills supporting my creative practice is learning to listen to my own embodied yes, no, and “I don’t know yet.”
Learning to Trust My Inner Signals
For much of my life, I have been attuned to what others needed more than to what I felt. Like many of us, I learned early on that being accommodating helped preserve connection. It helped things feel smoother. Safer.
That pattern followed me into the studio.
I would push through fatigue.
I would agree to projects that didn’t feel quite right.
I would rush ideas before they were ready.
I would ignore subtle resistance in my body.
Eventually, I realized that this was not sustainable. My creativity needed honesty, not endurance.
When My Body Says Yes
A true creative yes feels unmistakable in my body.
It feels open. Expansive. Alive. It feels Sparkly!
There may be a gentle leaning toward the work. My shoulders soften. My breath deepens. I feel curious, engaged, and present. Sometimes there’s quiet excitement. Sometimes there’s simply a sense of “this is it.”
When I honor that feeling, my work flows more naturally. Time moves differently. I feel connected to the clay and to myself.
These are the moments I try to protect.
When My Body Says No
A true no feels different.
It shows up as tension. Tightness. Fatigue. A subtle pulling away. Sometimes it’s a heaviness in my chest or a sense of dread in my stomach.
I notice it when a project feels more like obligation than invitation. When a timeline feels rushed. When a collaboration asks me to compromise something essential. When I’m already depleted.
Learning to respect that no has been one of the most important parts of sustaining my creative life.
Saying no is not rejection. It is care.
It protects my energy, my integrity, and my relationship with my work.
“I Don’t Know Yet” and the Gift of Not Rushing
Some of the most important moments in my creative process live in uncertainty.
There are times when I genuinely don’t know what a piece needs. I feel ambivalent. Confused. Pulled in different directions. Or I notice an old habit of wanting to accommodate expectations rather than listen inward.
In those moments, my most honest answer is:
I don’t know yet.
I need more time.
Giving myself permission to pause has changed everything. It allows ideas to mature. It lets intuition surface. It gives meaning space to form.
Not knowing is not failure.
It is part of the work.
Boundaries as Creative Support
Over time, I’ve learned that boundaries are not obstacles to creativity. They are structures of support.
They help me protect focused studio time.
They help me rest without guilt.
They help me choose projects that align with my values.
They help me communicate clearly with others.
They help me say no to distraction and yes to depth.
Without boundaries, creativity becomes fragile. With them, it becomes resilient.
Relationship, Community, and Being Held in My Limits
Making art is not a solitary act, even when I work alone.
It lives in relationship — with community, collaborators, clients, family, and friends. I’ve learned that the health of those relationships matters deeply to my creative life.
One of the greatest gifts is being in relationships where my boundaries are respected. Where I don’t have to defend my limits. Where “I need time” is met with understanding. Where “no” is met with care.
That kind of relational safety nourishes creativity.
It allows me to show up more fully — both in my work and in my life.
Listening to My Body, Listening to My Work
Clay is physical. It responds to pressure, timing, temperature, moisture, and touch.
So do I.
My body tells me when I’m aligned.
It tells me when I’m pushing too hard.
It tells me when I need rest.
It tells me when something wants to be born.
The more I listen, the more my work reflects honesty rather than strain.
Creativity as a Relationship
Over the years, I’ve come to understand that my creative practice is a relationship.
A relationship with myself.
A relationship with materials.
A relationship with time.
A relationship with uncertainty.
A relationship with possibility.
Like any meaningful relationship, it requires attention, boundaries, patience, and trust.
Learning to listen to my inner yes, no, and “I don’t know yet” has been central to that trust.
A Closing Reflection
My art doesn’t come from forcing.
It comes from presence.
From listening.
From honoring what is true in my body.
From staying connected to myself while staying open to what wants to emerge.
These practices support not only my relationships — they support my creative life.
They help me make work that feels honest, grounded, and alive.
And for me, that is the heart of SoulPlay Clay.