But Weaving Helps

Day 27: My mother was in her early thirties when my uncle gave her this coffee mug, appropriate to a sentiment she frequently expressed, and whether you can fault "nature" or "nurture," it's an opinion I have long shared. Never have I felt it so deeply as this week. My first reactions were horror and disgust, but this morning, they have given over to hopelessness and deep-seated fear for myself and for friends. I can't think. I can't sleep. I don't want to do anything other than hold Merry close (which he resists, being a rowdy little feller). I have the attention span of a gerbil: two small rings and a chain made in tatting, a paragraph and a half read in a Terry Pratchett novel, fifteen stitches made on Merry's blanket, half a row done on a knit hat for a friend before I have to get up and move, fidgety, to pace out to the kitchen, maybe check the refrigerator to see if there's something else I can eat to give myself some small comfort. Today, the tears spring unbidden, my hands shake, but I find some measure of peace in weaving, in the repetition of passing the shuttle to and fro, watching the pattern develop under my hands.