It is after 2 in the morning, and I really should be curled in asleep. But there is something magic about this time of night, and I'm not ready to let it go quite yet. So I'm sitting in my studio with the window open. My garden and itty bitty pond are right outside, and the scent of the night is drifting in. I have my pandora.com going, and Loreena McKinnet's "Marco Polo" is quietly playing. The house is asleep, and nobody is clamoring for attention. Just me, and the uncluttered evening.
And what am I doing in this rare moment of solitude? (Well, when I'm not typing, that is?) I'm sitting here with my bare feet tapping time on the treadles of my spinning wheel. Soft lofty wool is slipping through my finger tips, magically changing from fleece into yarn, wrapping itself round and round the bobbin. I lose myself in a kind of trance, mind wandering on everything and nothing, breath gradually evening as the rhythm of the wheel takes over my body.
And the night spins away...
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