It is such pure joy to fix myself a cup of morning coffee, shuffle across the yard and open the door to my waiting work space. It smells so good in there to me, when I first open the door. Is it the smell of solitude and intention? I cannot hear the phone ring, or access my computer screen. I build a fire, put on some music or a podcast and work in my down vest and wool slippers until the fire heats up the room. By 11 am I am usually in a tank top with the door cracked a bit. The routines and rituals that spring from my new work place feel almost holy to me. Wadding pages from last week's Weekly to start the fire, turning on the little electric kettle for a cup of tea, sweeping the bare wooden floor, stoking the fire, moving from sewing machine to ironing table to hand stitching in the rocking chair. I imagine time lapse footage of my work movements. What shapes am I making across the wooden floor? I hope one day there will be worn paths in the soft fir planks.