How fortunate that my hand still finds a pencil in it when I work.
I make a mark, and I work by it. Just a scratch, a hatch, a dash, a note, a measure, no more than an aid for aligning one thing to another, useful and no longer.
With every turn, I think of all I’ve tried my hand at over the years - what draws me to craft - and each stroke becomes more meaningful, each mark of my pencil heavy and delightful. From my very first drawing to the very real and consequential work day: fortunate.