The Pot That Smiled First

The room was quiet, but not the comforting kind.

It was hospital-quiet.

A silence filled with IV drips, numbed prayers, and the kind of fatigue that sinks into your bones.

Cynthia Hammond couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t find her smile, but she could hold a paintbrush.

I could not find a smile, so I painted one.

That first flowerpot was small, yellow and simple yet profound. A smiley face - brave and bright - with a single teardrop below its eye.

She didn’t know it at the time, but that pot was the beginning of a world.

Flowerpot Village didn’t start with a business plan or an Etsy account. It started with a woman in pain, trying to hold onto joy by painting it onto clay.

One pot became a pair. Then a row. Then a chorus of hand-painted villagers - each one holding a face, an emotion, a spark of something stubborn and soft. Something like hope.

My little villagers began as self-therapy. They could smile on the days I couldn’t.

Now, her villagers don’t just smile for her. They smile for everyone. They light up craft tables and fair booths. They charm toddlers and make grandmothers cry. They show up when words fall short and joy feels far away.

But it all started with that first brushstroke.

That yellow face. That teardrop. That quiet act of defiance in the middle of a storm. That’s why this isn’t just a story about painted pots.

It’s about healing with your hands. Laughing through grief. And learning how to smile again one clay face at a time.

They All Have Faces, But None Are the Same

Her villagers were born to make her smile.

But these days? They’re smiling for everyone.

At craft shows, farmers markets, and community fairs, it happens like clockwork:

A customer stops in their tracks. Their mouth curves before they realize it. Eyes soften. Shoulders drop.

People smile. They’re amazed. They say things like, ‘I’ve seen them online, but not in person. Your artwork is wonderful.’

Some giggle. Some cry. Some take pictures, ask about the paint, or point to one and say, “That one looks just like my aunt.”

And every now and then, someone whispers:

“This made my whole day.”

It’s those reactions - the spontaneous joy, the startled laughter, the “I needed this” - that keep her going.

Well…that, and her granddaughter.

When I was diagnosed with cancer, my first and most painful thought was: I won’t be around to see my grandchildren grow up.

But now? Her granddaughter is 18, helping finish each pot by hand, packing up for events, and even running point on social media.

She helps me with the completion process after I’ve painted them. She’s helping me navigate the social media miasma that young people find so simple.

Together, they’ve turned what started as self-therapy into a full-blown multi-generational operation. One paints. One polishes. One posts. Both pour love into every villager.

And while no two villagers are ever exactly alike - some have curlers, some wear glasses, some sport overalls or sequins - they all carry the same thing: A soul that makes people stop and feel something.

Each one of them is a work of art on their own. I may create two similar, but never identical.

There’s no assembly line. No paint-by-numbers.

Every villager is a little wild, a little funny, a little human.

And every time someone smiles back at them?

That’s when the magic happens.

Healing in Every Brushstroke

When cancer knocked, it didn’t come with answers.

It came with shock. With fear. With a numbness so thick, it swallowed sound. She remembers it vividly - not the statistics or the staging, but the feeling.

I was scared. I was numb with shock. The sorrow in my heart was all encompassing.

The world felt gray, but her flowerpots didn’t.

They smiled when she couldn’t and that was everything.

My little villagers began as self-therapy. They could always smile on the days when my own smile could not reach my eyes and was truly more of a grimace.

So she kept painting as a way to bring joy back into the room, even if it wasn’t her own yet.

And in time, the act of painting - of giving them faces, of coaxing emotion from clay - began to soften her own edges. It gave her something to care about. Something to create.

She paints wherever the mood strikes: her sons’ homes, borrowed kitchen tables, cozy corners claimed by color. There’s no Pinterest-perfect workspace - just love, access to a sink, and the people who make space for her to heal loudly.

I’m very spoiled in that regard. I don’t have a workshop, but my sons and their wonderful spouses allow me to paint wherever I am.

There’s ritual in it now, even if she didn’t call it that at first.

She has her favorite paint shirt. Her most trusted brushes. And she always starts the same way - by sculpting animal ears. Frog ears, dog ears, maybe even cow ears. They get affixed to the pots first, almost like a crown.

From there, anything can happen.

I may begin by saying I’m going to paint a nurse or a ladybug...and somehow I end up with a cow in overalls or an old woman with curlers.

There’s no template. No plan.

Just instinct. Emotion. And a deep desire to bring something new into the world.

Each pot is a prayer, a wink, a reminder that joy can be made - even when it can’t be found.

A Village in Bloom

The villagers are getting heavier.

Not metaphorically - literally. They’re made of clay, after all. And loading dozens into bins, cars, and tents is no small feat.

The events have been beautiful. Worth it. Magical.

But also exhausting.

And so, the next chapter is starting to take shape - not in pop-up tents or early morning setups, but in pixels and parcels.

I love doing the events, but the villagers all together are heavy. It’s becoming harder to tote and carry, set up and tear down.

The future? Lighter. Smarter. Just as full of heart.

With her granddaughter’s help, she’s building out Flowerpot Village’s online presence - posting more photos, handling custom orders, and dreaming up ways to make people smile from afar.

I hope to improve the online presence of the villagers and do more online sales and special orders, and with my granddaughter’s help, that may become a reality.

Workshops may be next.

Maybe not the kind where she hauls 30 pots and a tent - but the kind where a few people gather, paint quietly, and find healing in the process. The kind of space where a smiley face with a teardrop might just show up again, like an old friend.

What began in grief is now powered by legacy.

Flowerpot Village is blooming still.

The next season promises softer soil, brighter stories, and smiles that travel further than ever before.

A Reason to Smile

They’re not just pots. They’re tiny survivors. Little rebels. Smiling proof that even when your body is failing, when the grief feels endless, when your voice trembles from chemo and your world shrinks to waiting rooms - joy can still bloom.

Because it did in a yellow pot with a painted-on smile and a single blue teardrop.

And from that first villager came a whole world.

There is always a reason to smile, even on the darkest of days.

That’s what they’re made for.

To remind someone that they’re not alone. That beauty doesn’t need permission. That even a pot can hold space for healing.

I create because…it brings joy. And it might change someone’s day.

And maybe that’s what makes Flowerpot Village so special

Not the paint or the craft, but the intention.

To smile when others can’t. To carry light for those still walking through shadow.

To whisper - quietly, stubbornly, joyfully - You’re still here. And there’s still something beautiful waiting to be made.

🌷 Where to Find Her

Want to adopt a villager of your own?

Or just see what joy looks like in clay form?

You can explore her full collection, order custom designs, and learn more about upcoming events right here:

Website

Instagram

Each pot is hand-painted, heart-powered, and ready to bring a smile wherever it lands.