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The inky-rich depth of old, fertile acres, the silvers and golds of the hoarfrosted winter meadow, the pewter slip of sun that lustrously sheaths the dusk-hour ocean's horizon: deliciously ruddy gusts of life from the chest of earth herself breathe life into the molded muds lovingly stroked by potter Georgia Hann. 


Found of or above the ground, among or behung by trees, afloat or within the seas, nests come into being by daubers and swallows, snappers and grebes, foxes and peepers, skunks and coyotes. Cradles of clay crafted across creatures can warm a winter body, house a coveted bounty, and make a mother's clutch safe, honored, and loved. 

Earthen vessels coaxed into being by human hands, too, can support patterns of life and living rooted in love and respect, grit and vitality.


May your mug meet your lips like a crater revealed by an overturned forest stone, pooling with raindrops charged by the force of luna's tidal pull. May your bowl hold truths like the benthic blackness of the ocean's stygian depths, offering a sanctified calmness and peace to what exists within. May your pitcher be a gushing spring, welled with quenching moisture that sprouts forth from hidden aquifers beneath.


Pots may remind you of the core and the whole, they may inspire you to part your arms to the yawning sky above and bury your toes in the soft soil beneath; open your chest to the smell of the air and bring your attention to the soulfire of the living spirit. Be ready to remember. 

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Georgia Hann is a coastal child in a country disposition. Seeded and feeded among white pines and junipers where waves lap up to land, the shore is in her bones and the salt in her essence. Grounded, now, in the Great Marsh, the hushed blue light of dawn daily awakens both she and the behemoth silhouette of a worn-out sugar maple, its arc of branches spread like a halo before a cheery red milk barn. 

Wafts of hay kiss through the air, a bluebird alights on a puzzle of stones, the shoulders of a black cat glimmer in the sun as she lynxes across a wall of boulders: backbones of the earth heap forth to greet the day. A squeaky old pottery wheel hums brashly in the wind, grounded by the sweet sonic whisper of a ringneck snake as it slithers across a cool concrete floor.


Alongside cultivating and stewarding wildlife and wildlands with her partner Adam, Georgia instructs beginner pottery lessons at The Firestone Art Studio and Café in Manchester, Connecticut. 

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