I grew up in Hungary with two loving, caring grandmothers. Both of them were skilled makers and savers; nothing was ever wasted on their farms. I learned to appreciate the many ways of reusing and reinventing every little scrap early on. Perhaps, this is why I appreciate contemplative stitching and surface treatments that resemble torn, fraying, and darned cloth. Stitches are messages from an ardent and bruised heart; they whisper to our vulnerable selves. I read antique napkins -stained, ripped and darned- as if they were diaries; I trace the makers' hands with my fingers. The lost and forgotten become part of me. Then I set out to record layers of history to remember who I am, and for my daughters to know who I was. I command clay as my canvas, and in response it rips, tears and bends. Accidental and unpredictable outcomes of firing processes later guide the embroidery needle. Through slow experiments with hand-dyed threads, universal and traditional embroidery methods to complement utilitarian clay forms, eventually, delicate fibers and fired earth find harmony. A contemporary personal narrative is recorded. Memories, etched into my heart, are now stitched onto clay.The vulnerability of cloth, the fragility of a clay vessel: they become quiet reminders of our own transient existence.