Loss and Ground
The feel of silk through my fingers keeps me refreshed. It's a very textural thing. To see the brush strokes or yuzen designs painstakingly laid out... I don't often have the patience to do something like that, but I can view it and know what it means.
The fabric is patient. It waits for me in a corner of the room. Kimono, obi, yukata, haori, michiyuki, miyamiari, etc. all neatly folded, waiting to be exposed to that touch. Bright little hinagata stand guard over my shelves. Shibori, yuzen, omeshi... so many things. So many lives, so many hands have touched these little creations. I am comforted that I am not the only one. The obi that is cut does not cry for its destruction, it begs to be re-created into something else that will free it from the prison of a life left in storage. It longs to be worn, handled, caressed once again. It wants to be touched.
Maybe that is my connection with the fabric. I touch.