Yesterday was one of those slow, satisfying days that only happen right before a firing. No throwing, no glazing, no big decisions - just the steady rhythm of getting everything ready so the kiln can do its work.

Started early with wood. The pile had grown messy over the last few months, so I spent the morning cutting, splitting, and stachking fresh batches of eucalyptus and fruitwood. There's something meditative about it: the crack of the chain-saw, the smell of fresh-split timber, the way the grain reveals itself with each strike. I like knowing exactly what's going into the fire this time - how dry each log is, how long it's been seasoned, which pieces will burn fast and hot, which will smolder and ash. Every stick feels like a small promise for what the kiln might give back.

After lunch I moved to the kiln itself. Swept out the last traces of ash from the previous firing, checked the firebox, cleared the stoking ports, and made sure the chimney was breathing freely. There is always a moment when I open the door and smell the ghost of the last load - charcoal, reduction, faint sweet smoke. I love that smell. It's like the kiln is reminding me it's alive and waiting.

I also double-checked the shelves, props, and wadding. Rearranged a few pieces that were still waiting to go in, made sure nothing was too close to the flame path. Then I sat with a cup of tea and just looked at the kiln for a while. It's funny how much trust is involved: you spend days (or weeks) making the work, hours preparing the kiln, and then you hand everything over to fire and hope it comes back better than you left it.

By late afternoon everything was clean, stacked and quiet. The wood was ready, the kiln was breathing, and I felt that rare, calm certainty that comes right before letting go.

Next week the fire starts.

For now, the studio is still.