This vase was probably made by a peasant who lives in a village somewhere, deep into the Carpathian mountains. His days have an orderly and predictable symmetry. Wakes up just before the break of dawn, yawns, puts on his trousers, pets his dog. His morning is filled with familiar sounds and his mind is blissfully empty of any superfluous thoughts.

I can imagine his ragged hands holding the clay on the spinning wheel, giving it form. Maybe he’s whistling an old song or smiling at a distant memory from his youth. The dog is sleeping at his feet and the air is warm.

Someday, this vase, with all its history, will welcome me from the kitchen counter when I wake up. It will carry button flowers and lavender spikes. And the smile that originated it will carry on because beauty reverberates far out, over oceans and mountains and its presence fills the space in between.