Every morning at 6:30, people who live near the shrine gather, as always, to put their hands together in prayer. They sweep and clean, make offerings, and pray, “May we work in good spirits today.” It’s both a wish for a thriving business and a small morning greeting shared among neighbors.

Tōki Shrine hosts Furoyabu Sōtarō, regarded as the founding figure of Tambayaki. Around ten potteries take turns looking after the shrine. This place is truly the spiritual center of this “pottery town.”

In pottery-making, there’s always a force that lies beyond human power. No matter how much experience you have, no matter how far techniques advance, there’s always a moment in the final act of firing when “all you can do is trust in the gods.”

The position of the kiln, the moisture in the firewood, the control of the flames, air pressure, and wind direction – a slight shift in any of these, and the pieces will come out completely differently.

When the kiln is at its most tense, the sound of a crow dropping a nut on the roof can be mistaken for the sound of a pot cracking. In that taut stillness, the craftsperson simply stays close to the mood of the flames.

After such an extreme firing, when they encounter a result that exceeds all expectations, they say the piece no longer feels like a “work of art,” but like a living being – a life in itself. That’s why, now as in the past, they cannot help but pray: that the firing will go well, and that the pieces will safely reach someone’s hands.

Prayers woven into daily life. Prayers woven into the act of making. Prayers that help you keep facing forward, even as you fail again and again.

When you have a chance to hold a potter’s work, try to feel, behind it, these layers of invisible prayers.

They will show you a “landscape of Tambayaki” that cannot be told by earth and fire alone.