my soul shrivels with every act of malice and selfishness i encounter. it doesn't matter if one country imposes its will on another, folks live on the street, or if those i love argue at home; i receive macro and micro insults at the same piercing decibel. i have no volume control.

i wish my sensitivity led me to action, but how can i choose how to act? which injustice is the biggest injustice? which empty bowl do i fill? it all screams at me.

instead, my sensitivity leads me to make.

balls of clay, skeins of yarn, bolts of felt are my solace. when the overwhelm comes, i dive into tactile, organic media. i make pieces that are soft and comforting; mugs, blankets, pillows, tapestries, rugs... the act of making drives away the overwhelm and the products themselves make up my arsenal of defense. 

i make because making tethers me. 

i make because making is quiet, singular and meditative.

i make because my hands are restless and my brain churns.