There's a crack in my favorite mug, right along the handle where my thumb rests, and I keep using it, turning it so the crack faces away from me when I drink. Sometimes the flaw becomes the feature, doesn't it? That place where you have to be just a little more careful, a little more present -- the spot where your fingers learn the landscape of the thing all over again. Maybe that's where the holding happens. I keep some of my broken pots. They’re like little archaeological digs of my own failures, aren’t they? Each shard whispers a lesson learned—too much water, too little clay, too fast a firing. The cracks are just the paths to the next form.