I want my pot to remember what we forgot.

We’ll never truly know what a Jōmon potter was thinking 10,000 years ago. But the clay leaves clues.

Long before rice farming. Before Buddhism. Before written language—there was clay. Born from fire. Made by hand. Swollen bellies. Curved backs. Mother-and-baby figures. Not decoration. Devotion.

These weren’t just vessels. They were protectors. Clay midwives. Spirit-keepers.

Some sat beside women as they gave birth. Others held sacred herbs, offerings, quiet prayers for courage. Each Jōmon pot could take weeks—sometimes months—to complete. Gathering clay. Coiling by hand. Drying, carving, firing without a kiln. These weren’t made in haste. They took time, breath, care. The hands that shaped them had witnessed life arrive and depart. And they gave that moment form.

The Jōmon didn’t draw a line between function and spirituality. Didn’t ask if it was “worth the time.” They knew survival and meaning belonged together. A pot was a talisman. A meal was a ritual. Beauty wasn’t a luxury—it was life-giving.

They lived in rhythm with the earth. Their objects carried soul. Their ceramics weren’t just useful—they were cosmological. A worldview, fired in flame.

Today, potters often work on the edges—slowing down while the world speeds up. But the Jōmon weren’t outsiders. They were the culture. Their work was central. It nourished the body and the spirit. It passed down lineage. It stood in for the sacred when words weren’t enough.

Maybe we’ve lost something. Our homes are full of objects, but few carry meaning. Our lives are rushed. Meanings forgotten. But the Jōmon remind us— objects don’t just have to serve. Let our hearts remember what our head forgot.

So I make with that in mind. For the mamas. For the children. For the ones who came before. And the ones still coming.

This is my fireproof love letter. From one mama to another.

Noe x

ROUGH DIMENSIONS: H: 45-55 cm x W: 40-55 cm x D: 40-55 cm

(approx.)