Mighty and tall, I stand watch in solitude, listening to strains of Enya coming from the kitchen, her voice keeping syncopated time with the slow chug of my Lady Kenmore. It's grey and drizzling outside and I am felting wool: transforming individually woven wooly stitches of soft jewel colors. I diligently keep watch, transfixed, periodically dunking my hand into the sudsy brew, waiting for the soggy lump to morph into something else.
It is not often that I orchestrate transformation.
More often, I sit, wee and inconsequential, watching nature take its course.