There’s a weight to this kuksa—not heavy, but certain. It settles into the hand like it belongs there. The handle, once a living branch, curls into the fingers just enough. You don’t have to grip it. You just hold it.

The surface is smooth and polished, offering a great tactile feeling. There are lines and filled cracks, places where the grain split and was brought back together. It doesn’t hide what it’s been through. That’s part of what gives it its shape.

It’s made for something simple—a hot drink on a cold morning, or the feeling of something real in your palm. Not delicate, not perfect, and meant to be used.