I think most people when they hear me yapping about brick-making think it’s a little bit random - at least at first. But as I continue the story of Rose and John and Brickfield community, they begin having sparkles in the eyes and the questions begin….

“So where is it again? St Austell?”

“What do they do with bricks?”

“Can anyone come?”

This happens to you when you realise that exploring the lost craft of brickmaking by hand, in the heart of Cornwall’s ‘clay country’, a landscape shaped by the China Clay industry, is a very beautiful and practical way to learn about this place many of us call home.

A few weeks ago, I joined another open day at Brickfield but this time instead of brick-making, I followed Rose and John and focussed on preparing clay. I wish I could say building materials has always been an interest of mine as an ethnographer but it isn’t something I gave much thought until becoming friends with who opened my eyes to an entire universe.

I’m by no means trying to romanticise physical labour. I grew up in a working class family in Poland, where doing things with your hands; whether that’s growing vegetables or building a house; was something I was exposed to from the early age. But it wasn’t until the concept of samu1 in Zen Buddhism that I began to pay attention to what once seemed a mundane task.

Although being in Brickfield is far from mundane, and every part of the process fills me with joy, to me brick-making and working with materials feels like a meditation in action. Whether you’re needing the sand with your feet onto the clay, sieving or covering the moulds with a lineseed oil, there is nowhere else for you to be, but here.

You may also enjoy the introduction to Brickfield:

Chop Wood, Carry Water is a project exploring the remarkable power of doing things with our hands, together. It is an ode to labour, heritage, landscape, and community. Each photo essay is an attempt to understand and share how different restorative practices can influence collective wellbeing and serve as a form of meditation in action.

I visited the farm on a scorching day in June. After a relatively smooth journey (just a few cancelled trains2) I arrived in Totnes, where Kathryn kindly picked me up from the station. We dived into conversation, and the moment I fastened the seatbelt I knew this is only the beginning of many wonderful exchanges.

Upon our arrival, we were greeted by a swarm of honey bees, following the queen’s pheromones, flying to their new site, . I’ve never experienced the bees migration before so we followed the hummm, onto the road to see their new location. I thought to myself: Wow! We haven’t even started the tea garden tour yet!

During our walk around the plantation, I learned the fascinating story about Kathryn and Jo’s project, growing tea, the role of soil and insects, and the importance of biodiversity. Each word from Kathryn made me realise what a big commitment it is to grow tea organically. Our conversation and tour left me feeling inspired and even more eager to taste the tea.

At the tea house we shared green and black tea - which I swear tasted even more delicious after understanding how much care goes into cultivating the tea plants. The black tea made a big impression on me. The golden, amber like colour made my mouth water when Kathryn was pouring the tea into the fairness cup3. In a way the taste was familiar - sweet, and woody with hints of caramel - and yet it was so unique I couldn’t quite compare it with anything else.

Earliest garden memory?

My earliest memory of a connection with plants was a house plant I bought for my bedroom windowsill as a young teenager. Not only did this teach me a sense of responsibility but that a plant can be company. I still enjoy the company of plants to this day, whether it's a house plant, a tea bush or an Oak tree.

Method you swear by?

The method I would swear by would be to support a healthy ecosystem. Believe in the value each part of the chain plays in keeping balance. For example, to avoid a pest problem such as aphids, encourage more predators. From ladybirds to lacewings, bush crickets to dragonflies, hedgehogs to hawks, they all play a slightly different role in the delicate dance of nature.

If you could give one tip to a beginner gardener, what would that be?

Work with nature rather than against it. Using organic and regenerative practices, leaving wildlife corridors, rough patches, creating different habitats to encourage biodiversity. And keep chemicals out of the equation.

Slugs?

Lucky for us slugs and snails aren’t interested in tea. A healthy population of amphibians, reptiles, birds and mammals can eat a lot of slugs and interestingly some big slugs eat the smaller ones that can do the most damage.

Mulch?

We make our own mulch from our prunings, grass cuttings and fallen deadwood.

Fertiliser?

We use a nettle tea, green manure, well rotted organic cow manure and nitrogen fixing plants and trees.

Compost?

We leave fallen leaves, pulled weeds or grass cuttings on the ground, leaving our enthusiastic team of worms, slugs, snails, etc to do their job. Turning all those nutrients and organic matter back into soil.

Thank you so much for having me Kathryn.

If you’re a tea enthusiast based in the UK, I deeply encourage you to visit the farm. Kathryn and Jo hold guided tea garden tours that are an extraordinary experience. You cannot miss it. And I myself, hope to be back there again, soon.

Chop Wood, Carry Water is a project exploring the remarkable power of doing things with our hands, together. It is an ode to labour, heritage, landscape, and community. Each photo essay is an attempt to understand and share how different restorative practices can influence collective wellbeing and serve as a form of meditation in action.

One morning at the beginning of July, I saw on Instagram that Brickfield was holding an open day, offering the opportunity to learn how to mix clay, clat it up and throw it into a wooden mould before tapping out to reveal a brick.

I’d never visited a clay pit before, and I had absolutely no expectations apart from sheer excitement to learn. Stepping onto the site indeed felt like entering a paranormal terrain. And yet people have been making bricks from local clay in Cornwall since the 16th century.

One of the many highlights was meeting John Osborne, the last man to fire the brick kiln at Wheal Remfry brickworks near Fraddon, St Austell in 1971. In fact, when John was hand-making bricks at Wheal Remfry, a pair of brickmakers (working as a team) would make over 700 bricks in a day!

When you watch Rose and John interact, you can tell that these kindred spirits made bricks together in a previous lifetime, and it was such a privilege to witness the energy between them.

I never in my life expected to feel such pull towards brick making but here we are.

Brickfield is holding open days this Friday 31 July and Saturday 1 August.

Chop Wood, Carry Water is a project exploring the remarkable power of doing things with our hands, together. It is an ode to labour, heritage, landscape, and community. Each photo essay is an attempt to understand and share how different restorative practices can influence collective wellbeing and serve as a form of meditation in action.

You may also enjoy the previous story:

Like many of you, I’ve been navigating through heaps of climate anxiety this summer. One of the many worries that our society is and will be faced with is food shortages. Learning how to grow food, tending to the land, and supporting your local farms is a way we could have a direct impact on the future of the place where we live. Growing my garden has held me while traversing the sticky lands of grief. It’s what makes me feel inspired and keeps me humble. I often tell my students that growing a garden deepened my Buddhist practice. Having all of this in mind, you can imagine how keen I was to visit Loveland - an 8-acre community field in Penryn.

I visited the farm at the beginning of July, on a scorching afternoon, when Finn, Rachel and Evie showed me around, talked to me about growing, compost and the power of the community.

Earliest garden memory?

Eating mirabelle plums off the tree in the garden at home without any adults around.

Favourite thing to grow?

Tomatoes! I enjoy the weekly maintenance that you have to give to a tomato plant, watching the plant slowly grow in the cooler months of spring into hot summer. The gradual ripening of the fruit on the trusses and, of course, eating them - it tastes like summer!

Method you swear by?

Broad forking, it is such a simple lo-fi tool and so accessible for everyone to use; the impact it has in terms of improving soil health and structure feels so immediate and impactful.

Slugs?

No thank you

Mulch?

Moist

Fertiliser?

Erm ...is this necessary?

Compost?

Life!

If you could give one tip to a beginner gardener, what would that be?

Observe and keep it simple.

Also, don’t overthink it; just plant the seed and see what happens.

Loveland is currently running a crowd-founder and they are only £2000 away from reaching their goal~ You can support their incredible initiative here

My daily activities are not unusual,
I’m just naturally in harmony with them.
Grasping nothing, discarding nothing.
In every place there’s no hindrance, no conflict.
My supernatural power and marvellous activity:
Drawing water and chopping wood.

Some say that his words mirror the journey of spiritual awakening. The mundane tasks one may find oneself doing with a wandering mind - but after enlightenment, those same tasks of daily life are carried out with complete presence, contentment, and full awareness. This may be true for advanced practitioners. But I think that for most people, myself included, twelve years of practice have certainly sharpened my awareness, and yet I still dislike washing dishes :-) The difference is that I’m aware of it now.

Reading Layman Pang’s words makes me think about the nature of human seeking. Most of us have had a moment in life when we wondered if there must be more to living than our current situation - whether while commuting, washing dishes, or lying awake at night with a quiet sense of restlessness. The perplexity of living a life, knowing that one day it will end, is a paradox we all must face.

And yet, asking the question brings us back to the fertile ground of not-knowing, from which much can be cultivated and grown - as long as we are willing to ask.

I recently wrote an essay about samu (作務) - mindful, voluntary physical labour in Zen practice, and my relationship with finding presence in the ordinary. A meditation in action. This brings me to the inspiration behind this project.

Moving to Cornwall five years ago helped me understand what living in a community truly means. I don’t mean a group of friends we choose to spend time with, but the people who share our neighbourhoods and our town- their views, different styles of communication, ways of seeing the world, and the values that shape how they live - not always in line with our own. For a while, the anthropologist in me has been thinking about starting a personal project that brings together my interest in restorative environmental justice, collective wellbeing, and curiosity about Cornish heritage.

In a time shaped by despair, greed, and climate anxiety, reconnecting with the land, with community, and committing to restorative practices feels more important than ever. Each day, I marvel at the dichotomy we find ourselves in. One day I may feel nourished and full of awe, and the next I might sit on the wooden steps leading from our decking into the garden and weep with despair, while butterflies and bees pollinate the flowers around me, reminding me that grief and joy can coexist.

Chop Wood, Carry Water is a project exploring the remarkable power of doing things with our hands, together. It is an ode to labour, heritage, landscape, and community. Each photo essay is an attempt to understand and share how different restorative practices can influence collective wellbeing and serve as a form of meditation in action.

have a cup of tea

On samu and finding presence in ordinary tasks~

One of the reasons I was initially attracted to Zen wasn’t the promise of transformation, but the emphasis on the arts - which became a focus of my dissertation in Buddhist Studies - and samu, mindful, voluntary physical labour. In this essay, I will be focusing on the latter…

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2 months ago · 6 likes · 5 comments · Kasia Murfet

A few years into my relationship with my husband, I remember telling my best friend about Phil. How loving and supportive he is. Wondering what would it feel like growing up with a man like this. I remember Mary looking me in the eyes and asking: “Is he your role model?” The question took me by surprise because I’ve never given it much thought but after some reflection I’ve answered “Yeah, I think he is.”

There are many qualities that make Phil-Phil but one of the things I deeply appreciate is his gift for gardening and his “green fingers”.

Each year I see his garden in its full glory and I’m completely mesmerised by how everything flourishes under his care.

He insists he’s not doing anything special but I believe you can learn a lot about a person by the way they tend to their garden.

Here are a few moments I captured in Phil’s garden recently. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

from a recent visit to Tremenheere Sculpture Gardens 🌱🪨🌺

lately, I’ve been reaching for my camera again.

perhaps four years is long enough to rekindle a lost feeling…

or maybe it’s simply impossible to resist

when you’re surrounded by so much beauty.

watching the light slip

from yellow into pink

🌅

This year, my partner Charlie and I are celebrating twelve years together. On one hand, it feels like we’ve been together forever. On the other, part of me still can’t believe twelve years have passed.

The other day, during a conversation with a friend, someone asked me: “What are your tips for a long-term relationship?” I was flattered and slightly surprised — I’m not usually one to give advice. In the moment, I think I said something like, “Communication,” which of course is true.

But the question lingered. I began to wonder if there is, in fact, something we’ve cultivated over the years that’s worth reflecting on.

In honour of Love Day, I decided to compile a short list of intentions we consciously nurture to keep our hearts open to one another.

Understand each other’s love language.

Love languages help us communicate what makes us feel loved and appreciated. For both of us, touch and quality time are vital. For Charlie, words of affirmation matter deeply (I couldn’t give a damn personally). On the other hand, I deeply appreciate acts of service — not only because actions can speak louder than words, but because there’s something almost devotional, to me, about doing simple tasks with care.

Having that conversation was surprisingly insightful. It’s such a light, simple way to cultivate curiosity and intimacy.

Understand your conflict language.

I know, I know — I was just talking about love and cuddles, and now I’m jumping straight into conflict. But let’s be realistic.

Our attachments, conditioning, and strong opinions will inevitably lead to disagreements. Understanding how you each navigate conflict is essential. It allows empathy to grow and turns friction into an opportunity to deepen love instead of planting resentment. Some of us my immediately seek solutions, while others prefer to withdraw.

Because our conflict styles are different, this has been a big one for us.

Intimacy doesn’t start in the sheets.

Most truths are simple. Intimacy is cultivated through shared laughter, trust, vulnerability — those small, sweet moments of connection. We often don’t give enough credit to the tiny gestures: the touches, the kisses, the quiet presence that makes us feel loved (and horny).

Talk to each other.

One thing I’m grateful for every day is that no matter what happens between us, we can talk it out. When we’re crabby, moody, or something feels off, it never crosses my mind to confide in someone else before him.

I’m not saying friendships aren’t valuable — if you know me, you know I’m in love with friendship. But we have to be able to speak to our partners about our wants, needs, and hurts. They can’t read our minds.

Time alone.

When Charlie and I first started dating, we quickly realised that his outgoing, bubbly nature differs greatly from my hypersensitive, hermit-like self who needs daily solitude.

People used to ask if I went to his DJ sets, and he’d laugh and say, “Oh no, Kaś isn’t really into house or techno.” I’m grateful I never had to pretend I was.

We both have practices and passions outside of our relationship that recharge us. Stepping away to reconnect with yourself isn’t wrong or selfish — it’s crucial. It’s what allows us to return to each other more present, more generous, and more whole.

happy love day friends

with care

Kasia

let’s connect: ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

1. Kamoinge Workshop

Kamoinge Workshops emerged in 1963, in the New York City, after two groups of African American photographers came together „soughtinhg artistic equality and empowerment”.

The name Kamoinge - means “a group of people acting together” in the Gikuyu language of Kenya - which reflected their „commitment to supporting one another and photography’s power as an independent art form that depicts Black communities as they saw and experienced them, in contrast to how they were often negatively portrayed in art, media, and popular culture”.

There is something so distinct in the all the photographs captured by the members of the Kamoigne. I’m drawn to this sense of intimacy, tangible warmth and beauty depicted in the frames. To me looking at these images brings a quiet, spiritual like quality. They capture the community with much dignity and respect.

Find more about their incredible work here:

https://www.kamoinge.com/

2. Once in August, a documentary on Margaret Atwood by filmmaker Michael Rubbo.

Rubbo attempts to uncover what shapes her fiction and what motivates her characters.

As a researcher who favours a combination of ethnographic and grounded theory methodologies, and who intentionally avoids establishing a hypothesis at the beginning of a project—instead allowing the gathered data to speak before drawing conclusions—I found myself struggling with Rubbo’s approach.

He seems reluctant to move away from the idea that Atwood writes complex characters because something “haunts” her. Yet Atwood herself offers thoughtful, intelligent, and compelling reflections that illuminate the creative process—especially the way characters come to life through real choice and agency.

You can watch it for free here: https://www.nfb.ca/film/margaret_atwood_once_in_august/

3. Soothing blue grading in the Winter in Sokcho (2024) directed by Koya Kamura makes me want to pick up a few roles of CineStill800T and start working on a project again. A lovely little treat for slow cinema fans too.

   

   

   

   4. Yi Yi by Edward Yang, (2000).

   I don’t know how to describe, review, or rate Yang’s film; because how do you put into words the essence of living?

   Over the course of three hours, Yi Yi follows a family in Taipei, quietly capturing the complexity of being alive. It asks how one can feel alone in the company of others. What does it mean to live a fulfilled life? Is it worth waking up each morning to return to the same uncertainties? And is there any real possibility of not repeating the mistakes that others before us continue to make?

   Rather than offering answers, the film lingers in observation and incredible attention to detail; small gestures, unfinished conversations, ordinary moments that accumulate into something deeply human.

   I’ll leave you with some quotes and stills.

   Decide for yourself.

   “Life is a mixture of happy and sad things. Movies are so lifelike - that’s why we love them”

   “Why are we afraid of the first time? Every day in life is a first time. Every morning is new. We never live the same day twice.”

   “Daddy, can we only know half of the truth? What? I don’t get it?

   I can only see what’s in front, not what’s behind. So I can only know half of the truth, right?”

   

What about you? What can’t you stop thinking about?

When you share tea with Kyle1, every aspect of the experience feels intentional: the way light moves through the room, the carefully chosen ceramics, the lingering scent of incense, the delicate pairing of sweets. Kyle’s attention to detail becomes an art form of its own.

You can read more about Kyle’s many talents here.

have a cup of tea

Introduction to Zen Arts

Zen practices such as ikebana and shodō (calligraphy) have often been categorised as the Zen Arts in Western interpretations of Japanese culture. Embedded within the concept of 'art' is the assumption grounded in Western thought that the output is an object intended for aesthetic appreciation and consumption. Zen however treats arts as vehicles for medi…

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a year ago · 13 likes · Kasia Murfet

I have a complicated relationship with photography. A dance between a push and a pull (no pun intended). Perhaps a lot of us struggle with a medium we have dedicated our lives to. I’ve tried to leave photography behind many times—my cameras sitting in a bag, shoved underneath a coffee table in our spare room. Shoved, yet not forgotten.

Any time I get my hands on a photobook, any time I see a photograph that touches my heart, I go upstairs, clean the lenses, order more black-and-white film. I feel tingling all over my body—and the cycle continues.

I think what I dislike most about photography is how compulsive it feels. One moment I might be walking, fully immersed in the present—the sound of waves crashing at the shore, seagulls’ low, piercing keow above my head, the umami smell of the ocean—and then suddenly there is this strong urge, impossible to ignore, to capture the light kissing the cliffs.

I’m pulled away from the embodied experience and start setting up the camera. I try to be calm and grounded, but I can see the light changing fast. It’s exhilarating, I guess, but it’s also futile. The moment that touched me so deeply on a somatic level can never be duplicated in an image. And yet I pull the focus and do it anyway—because how could I resist?

I was naive in thinking that after moving to Cornwall, I would be able to stop taking pictures. To re-direct my attention fully to my Buddhist and Qigong studies. Perhaps I didn’t anticipate how breathtaking and dramatic it would be to live here. Or maybe being a creative (whatever that means) is like a double-edged sword. Surely I can’t be the only one feeling this way. I’m not that special.

Recently, I’ve come to the conclusion that at its essence, most creative practices orbit around the notion of reaching others through our work—and finding a way to do what we do with honesty.

People often speak of uniqueness and authenticity, but somehow honesty conveys better what I’m trying to say. Honesty allows us to be truthful and compassionate while honouring creative integrity. It reminds us why we are doing the work, and helps us decide whether a piece we made is a keeper or not. I think it’s what builds trust between ourselves and our work. Accepting that the creative process looks more like a spiral than a straight line.

Equally, I think each of us hopes that whatever piece of pottery, piece of music, painting, or photograph we share might touch someone else’s heart. And I don’t think there is anything wrong with that.

This doesn’t always mean we create in order to find validation or feel seen. Instead, it points us toward that deep feeling of connection we experience when we ourselves are touched by someone else’s work. I recall many moments in my life when looking at photographs by Yamamoto Masao, I felt what I can only describe as awe.

Perhaps the push and pull is not a problem to be solved. Perhaps I can live inside the tension, walking the spiral, knowing I will be pulled away—only to return.

I don’t know… what do you think?

As someone who had only ever known city life, learning to live in a small town was an adjustment. I had no job prospects, no friends. I had just begun my master’s degree and had no idea how to exist without constant stimulation.

When we moved in 2021, I was recovering from PTSD and still experiencing occasional panic attacks. From the very first night in our new home, I knew this was the right decision for my nervous system. No ambulance sirens. No arguments erupting outside our window. The relentless noise of the city fell away, and years of insomnia slowly began to loosen their grip.

Fast forward four years to last summer. After Charlie was made redundant, I remember he asked me, how would you feel about moving back to the city? I remember saying: But I’m not finished here… I’m only getting started (…)

Food for thought

Isn’t it funny how sometimes we only see the shape of our happiness when we are about to lose it?

As autumn began to draw in, I found myself channeling energy into new beginnings - refining what no longer held meaning.

Part of this process was redesigning my entire website.

While reflecting on what shapes my work and practice, I started to realise that communication for neurodivergent and multi-passionate folks like myself can sometimes feel like a barrier. Our society still wants us to pick a lane and follow a linear definition of “success.”

Curious, I ran a poll on my Instagram stories asking fellow multi-passionate people if they ever feel out of place.

Every single person voted yes - (well, “hell yes,” to be specific).

So why do multi-passionate people often feel out of place in today’s world?

Here are some thoughts:

The Culture of Specialisation

Modern systems - from education to the corporate roles - reward depth over breadth. You’re often expected to “pick a lane,” become an expert, and stay there. Multi-passionate people, who naturally move between interests and disciplines, can be seen as “unfocused” rather than innovative or adaptive.

Productivity and Profit
Our culture tends to measure worth through output and efficiency. When passions don’t immediately lead to measurable results or clear career advancement, they can be dismissed as distractions - even though they often nurture creativity, balance, and mental wellbeing.

Consistency over Curiosity
Multi-passionate people often reinvent themselves - and that can unsettle those who value stability and predictability. Society tends to praise consistency over curiosity, even though curiosity is what drives real progress and innovation.

Linear Success Narratives
The dominant story we’re told is that success looks like a straight line: study → career → mastery → retirement. But multi-passionate lives are cyclical — weaving between learning, creating, exploring, and reimagining. That non-linear path doesn’t fit the standard script, even though it’s often richer and more fulfilling.

So where does this leave us?

To me, even though many of us don’t fit into society’s linear script, weaving between learning, creating, exploring, and reimagining feels infinitely richer. We haven’t avoided a single path - or failed to build an identity around it - because we’re lazy or unfocused. We’ve done so because, for many of us, exploration, curiosity, and synthesis naturally belong together.

Multi-passionate people are connectors and bridge-builders.
We move between art and logic, movement and stillness, science and spirit — and in doing so, we bring a kind of creativity and depth that specialisation alone could never produce.

Tanoshisa ya/ Aota ni suzumu/ Mizu no oto

-

It’s pleasant.

I’m cooled in the green paddy field.

And the sound of the water.

-Bashō

A way of releasing despair for the world.

A love language that I share with my mother -

hands in a soil, no need to say more.

An embodiment of care.

Seeing things grow lets growth happen inside me.

Sharing seeds and cuttings.

Passing down techniques, generational wisdom.

Growing a community.

Growing a future.

Gardening as an act of hope.

11th June, 2024

The wordless sermon of Tathagata

Who can understand it?

A stick made from the brunch of a tree

Understands it unconsciously.

Captured on 120 film across North Cornwall.