Working at the edge of the sea, my hands covered in clay, I began to hum.
Daiwa.
I sang it again, and again.
The sound felt significant enough that I clambered for my phone, clay still in hand, afraid I might lose it.
Later, I looked up the word.
Daiwa — great harmony. Great peace.
And there before me was this great one I had been building: stone upon stone, handful upon handful of clay, covered in white porcelain.
The afternoon had been peaceful. The sea was still. Everything felt held in balance.
And so, somehow, was he.
Ancient, weighty, speaking volumes without saying a word.
I looked out across the sea, knowing that somewhere far beyond it was Japan, and an ancient name I had somehow sung before I knew its meaning.
Daiwa.
Great harmony.
