I have done just a tiny tiny bit of embroidery on an old scrap piece of paper inside a Calculus book. My arm has been feeling better and I am no longer required to keep it tucked away in a sling. Still, it gets tired easily and repetitive motions (especially up and down) are a bit scary. It will take a while before I am completely comfortable stitching again.

I have though been making it a point to read on my commute — most recently finishing The Art of Hearing Heartbeats and One Thousand White Women. I have turned back now to an old favorite: An American Childhood by Annie Dillard. I think I could read it (and Pilgrim at Tinker Creek) a million times and still find something special within it.

An infant watches her hands and feels them move. Gradually she fixes her own boundaries at the complex incurved rim of her skin. Later she touches one palm to another and tries for a game to distinguish each hand’s sensation of feeling and being felt. What is a house but a bigger skin, and a neighborhood map but the world’s skin ever expanding?”

I can only dream of writing sentences like that.

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