It is the middle of the night.
That 3 am place
where pain has banished sleep.
The internet is tempting,
but a very bad idea.
At this hour, candle and needle are better companions.
These pillows are the last-chance incarnation of a Turkkoman carpet.
Hand spun wool is rough comfort.
Touching patterns thousands of years old seems an honest trade for my own dreams.
Forcing the curved needle through four layers of knots
takes all my strength at 3:48 am.
The waxed linen thread so satisfying to pull hard into each stitch.
Each stitch feels like a tiny measure of rightness reclaimed
in this broken world.
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