There is a particular kind of hour in our home. It falls somewhere between the last maths problem and the first thought about what's for dinner. It's not a scheduled hour — not really. It simply arrives, soft and unhurried, like light shifting across the worktable.
That is the hour I make jewellery.
Running The Eighth Hour Studio while home educating means that my days don't divide neatly into work and life. They fold into each other, constantly. A question about volcanoes might lead us outside to the garden, and somewhere between the explaining and the wondering, I'll find myself thinking about the curve of a wire, the way a piece of glass catches the afternoon. The making is always there, quietly waiting.
And I've come to understand that this isn't a tension to manage. It's actually the heartbeat of everything I do.
Glass, wire, and the softness of slowing down
When I sit down to work with glass and wire, something in me exhales.
There's no rushing wire into shape. It has its own memory, its own willingness. You guide it, gently, with intention and it responds. Glass is the same. It holds light in a way that feels almost alive, almost like it knows what it wants to become. Working with these materials asks you to be present. Not urgent. Not efficient. Just there.
That quality of presence is something I try to bring into our home education days too. Learning, like making, doesn't always move in straight lines. Some days we follow a thread of curiosity for hours. Other days, we sit with something difficult and let it settle. I've learned not to force the shape of a day in the studio or in our learning.
The ritual of the eighth hour
The name of this studio matters to me. The eighth hour is not a clock time it's a feeling. It's the part of the day that asks you to finally stop rushing and simply be somewhere. For me, that's at my workbench, with a length of wire in my hands and a piece of sea glass or lampwork waiting to find its form.
Some of my best ideas for new pieces, for lessons with my children, for the direction of this little business have come in that unhurried space. When I stop trying to be productive and start being present, something opens up.
A business built on intention
I didn't set out to build a brand. I set out to make things that felt meaningful to me, and to the people who would wear them. Every piece from The Eighth Hour Studio is handmade, and that word matters. Hand-made. Made by hands that earlier that day helped a child work through long division, or read aloud from a book, or planted seeds in the garden.
There is something of all of that in each piece. The patience. The attention. The belief that beautiful things are worth taking time over.
I think that's what people feel when they hold one of my pieces not just the weight of glass or the delicacy of wire, but the quiet that went into it.
For those living in the busy and the margins...
If you're also navigating the wonderful, bewildering overlap of family and creative work, I see you. The days are rarely tidy. But there is something extraordinary about building a life where what you make and who you're raising are woven from the same cloth — the same values of slowness, curiosity, and care.
The jewellery I make is not separate from the life I'm living. It is the life I'm living, shaped into something you can hold.
And that, I think, is worth everything.
