I live at the bottom of an ancient ocean.
No, really.
I didn’t grow up in Texas, so I missed the memo that this entire region—this Blackland Prairie—was once part of a shallow, tropical sea.
Yes, sea.
The Western Interior Seaway, to be exact.
So when I dig my hands into this black, heavy clay, I’m not just reaching into the ground—I’m reaching into deep time. Into the floor of an ocean that once split North America in half. That’s why you can find marine fossils in Dallas, in Louisiana, even in fields now grazed by cows. This land has been land, then sea, then land again.
And here I am, standing on the seafloor, trying to make a pot.
The sea is long gone, but it left me this clay. Stubborn. Beautiful. Wild.
Funny thing is, I used to curse her.
When I first started gardening, she was the bane of my existence. The food I wanted to grow found her composition too dense. Too waterlogged. Too unwilling to let anything breathe. So I amended her. Fought her. Loathed her.
Because back then, a bountiful harvest of fruits and vegetables was always the endgame.
But one day, I paused.
And I wondered: what if I could make something with her instead?
That was the beginning.
She Wouldn’t Settle
Harvesting the clay wasn’t the problem. Getting her to separate was.
Every Andy Ward video I watched said the same: agitate your clay in water, let it rest, and soon you’ll see clear water at the top. Decant, and you’re on your way.
Except… I never got clear water.
No matter how long I waited, the water stayed murky.
I started second-guessing everything. Had I stirred too much? Not enough? Was I too impatient? Or was this just the nature of Texas wild clay?
Eventually, I accepted the truth: she wasn’t broken. She just needed something different.
Learning Her Language
Other potters suggested adding apple cider vinegar to speed up the separation. So I did. After 12 hours, I had a quarter inch of clear water sitting on top of a full five-gallon bucket. Better—but still not enough.
Then came the breakthrough. I made a slurry of Epsom salt and water (not just sprinkled—fully dissolved) and poured it in.
Forty-eight hours later: two full inches of clear water.
She was ready to be decanted.
What used to take weeks now takes days.
But drying? That was its own lesson.
Trial and Error
At first, I slung the clay in pillowcases and hung them outside like hammocks. It worked—until the morning dew turned them soggy overnight.
So I adjusted.
I started bringing the hammocks in at night, hanging them in the family room with the ceiling fan on full blast.
Once the clay thickened, I transferred it to trays lined with newspaper. The paper wicked up moisture quickly, and what once took weeks now took just one.
What I Know Now
This clay doesn’t follow rules.
She doesn’t rush.
This clay asks for presence. For patience. For flexibility.
She used to be the thing I fought.
Now, she’s my collaborator.
And soon, she’ll be something new. Something formed. Something fired.
Something beautiful.
