When I fell off a ladder one day while building the Woodshouse (Blodgett’s cabin west of Edmonton-Ed.) and broke my right hand, it seemed just another in a series of almost predictable accidents which run my life. It was meant to happen. This one finished my barely-begun career of making functional pots on the wheel. At first, it seemed like the end of all my dreams. I felt blind. My hands are my eyes, my tools. They are what I sense with, touch with, see with, talk with, build with, transform with.