So many things live in our houses, alongside us.

They are mute, but each object was made; manufactured or crafted from materials of the earth. By people in factories or workshops. I add to the pile with my own making, too.

I’m so often incurious about the objects that share my home. But the things I love best have some backstory, some character.

Everything you make, you know more intimately. You know its history at least a little bit further back into time. You may not know where the sheep grazed, who tended them and sheared them yearly, who picked and processed the fleece, who ran the mills where it was spun into thread and yarn, where it was knit or woven into fabric. But you remember the shop where you bought the fabric. You know how the wind howled through the dark city on the autumn evenings while you cut and and brought the pieces together, step by step, into a coat.

So when you slip it on you are tied back into meaningful moments in your past, into stories. And you are tied into an imagined future too, because you wouldn’t have made it if you hadn’t imagined that specific future, with you, wearing a coat of your own making.