On a shelf above the worktable sits a ledger, its pages smudged with slip and annotated in pencil. Each page is a pot: rows for the number of coils, their average thickness, the wait between joins, and a final verdict in a single word — keep, adjust, or abandon. Coiling has no wheel to hide behind. Every millimeter of wall is an act of decision, and the ledger simply makes the decision legible. Her coils are rolled against a wooden gauge so the rhythm stays even; the joins are scored, slipped, and pressed until the seam disappears into the body. Builders rarely speak of inspiration. They speak of hydration, of weight, of the patience of letting a wall rest before it is asked to rise again. What the chart records, in the end, is not technique but temperament. A calm pot, she says, is a calm potter — measured out in coils.