“I’m sorry for what I said when I was hangry.”
 
Yasso frozen Greek yogurt bar package

A big kitchen with a gorilla-size oven, I can understand. It’s basically a chemistry lab for semi-serious food scientists who often require a careful titer of heat and ingredients. 
 
But big bathrooms? What does a castle of marble and porcelain produce? Perfect lashes, brows and a popped pimple? I just want to get in and get out. 
 
If I’m going to dawdle, it’s at my desk in front of my window where the elm’s fringed leaves broil with wind. And a sparrow dips its beak into a robin’s nest, upending egg after blue egg onto the pavement below. And two robins pace the sidewalk, the mosaic of shattered shells like bits of broken of sky.
 

“We don’t know what we do does.”
 
Kevin Kling

Recently, I took a class titled “The Art of Mending.” Heidi, the cheerful instructor, evangelizes about not discarding clothes even as the knees split and the hems fray, even as moths unravel a sleeve. She preaches the benefits of intentional mending that doesn’t apologize, that celebrates repair. She says mending reduces landfill, saves money and occupies restless hands.
 
So we learned about threads and needles and how to select fabric backing and how to camouflage the frayed edges with random seed stitches. But first we learned how to diagnose the injury of aging. What movement eroded the fibers? What new grace will help it endure?