Writing about it seems very odd to me.  Like showing off a lot of pictures from it that I didn’t take… Sharing some of the innermost fragile and interpersonal conncetions and moments that i have probably ever experienced in a different medium than they occured, to me feels a bit…

We found a book in the libary, and at the first page that opened we red “My mother would sit out in the sun and repair a tapestry or a petit point. She really loved it. This sense of reparation is very deep within me.