263 Days

Homeschooling, making and selling art, and a house fire. A lot can happen in 263 days.

263 days. January 1, 2025, was 263 days ago. It was also the last time I posted on Considered Clay.

So, let’s catch up.

If you read my last entry, Leaving 2024, I shared that I wanted to leave a few limiting tendencies behind as the year drew to a close. I wanted to balance my optimism with realism, say no more often, and allow myself to dream big.

Removing my rose colored glasses and seeing reality for what it was—not how I could make it better with loads of effort and struggle—was a critical lesson for me and allowed me to identify a problem that needed quick attention: we had chosen the wrong school for our children, and one of them needed to be homeschooled until we found a new path forward. It was a gigantic shift for him, me, and our entire family.

That was late January, just before our misalignments began emerging.

A big step forward, first: I’ve said no many times in the past 263 days. While declining many opportunities and invitations was a result of my son being at home, it’s felt great to protect my time and energy. The boundary feels good. It’s also been clarifying.

When deciding which aspect of my art practice to continue pursuing—my limited time limited my pursuits—it was undeniable: I had to continue interpreting my meditative color experiences onto clay surfaces. It’s how I dream and meditate. I live in color. And that’s the area of my practice where I’m dreaming big.

But wait—here’s the wild card.

The most challenging aspect of the last 263 days is that we didn’t face these trials in our protective home, where we could safely digest the shifts, continue to sleep in our familiar beds, and be surrounded by our belongings.

In late February, we had a house fire and were displaced from our home for 98 days. We returned in early June.

No people or pets were hurt, but it was a nightmare.

In many ways, this year has been more trying than my cancer journey. My cancer—and the poking, prodding, surgeries, and pain—all happened to me. My three children witnessed it, but this fire, displacement, school search, and so much more also happened to them. Witnessing their pain, sadness, anxiety, and depression was crushing, all while managing our own.

Many misalignments emerged during this time. I’ll never forget sitting in the back yard of our temporary housing and discussing every nuance with my husband. It was springtime, and the dry season was extended. The sky was the most calming of blues, but the issues were so complex.

The fact that we found new schools, continued our business endeavors, played sports, learned, created, and sold art while being displaced and watching our home being rebuilt is truly remarkable. It’s a testament to the strength of our family and our commitment to each other and our children.

There is still so very much to digest and heal. I still have flashbacks about that fateful Sunday afternoon when I heard my husband’s panicked voice. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, his words were familiar, like I’d heard them in a premonition. My first thought: Oh no, it’s happened.

I’m so grateful we live in South Florida, near the ocean, where the sky stretches in all directions, reaching the edges of the earth. I get lost in it all. The beauty fills me, and then I spend time in my studio with clay.

I will continue to write, digest, and, yes, make art!

Thanks for being here for it all!

XO

Landis

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Collection 6, photographed above, originates from a larger body of work that responds to a color vision I experienced in 2023, in which I felt a sense of expanding, calm hopefulness. Deep aquas fluctuated in saturation and translucency, ebbing into calming blues and expansive greens. Collection 6 comprises six ceramic surfaces of floating landscapes that emerged as I paired the middle-toned hues of my meditation, transforming my calming experience into another, for you, the viewer. For more of my art, follow me on Instagram.

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