The Handwork

People sometimes say to me,“It must be nice—you seem to enjoy yourself wherever you go.”

And in many ways, they're right. Luckily, I’m the type who can find joy in unfamiliar places, who can adapt and bloom in shifting soil.

– Okay, “bloom” might be a bit generous—sometimes it’s more like… survive with minimal drama.

But what they don’t always see is: it’s also a skill I’ve worked hard to cultivate.

A skill rooted not in escapism, but in presence.

Not in distraction, but in devotion.

One of the people who taught me that is my grandmother.

She’s nearly ninety now, and lives alone in the big house where she once lived with her kids and her husband, my grandfather, who passed away years ago. Still, every day she rises early, sweeps the floor, makes herself breakfast, goes on a walk, sings in the choir, visits the library, reads voraciously, go to the gym 3 times a week (😵😵😵) and laughs with childlike joy. Seriously, she has more energy than me on two coffees and a good playlist.

She always seems to feel God’s love nearby. She’s not the type who prefers to be alone. She has many friends, and she loves people deeply. And still, even when she’s alone, she’s not lonely.

There’s something radiant about her—a quiet strength, a kind of wholeness I long to grow into.

There are people who can live anywhere and still be rooted and caring.

People who are not easily shaken, because they carry their ground within them.

It might sound random, but watching them made me think—maybe the secret really is in "handwork".

In doing ordinary things with care. In small, repeated gestures that somehow speak to the soul.

Maybe, handwork is one of the essences of being alive.

It is the act of quietly weaving your life together, thread by thread.

With finite time and a fragile body, we still long to touch the infinite—to connect, to mean something, to leave a trace, to shape the world.

Handwork is a kind of dialogue between the body and the world. Each action whispers, "I am here".

In the folds of cloth, the warm bread, the polished wood, the ink on paper—we leave behind our breath, our hesitation, our memory, our prayer.

And yes! Art is much the same. Art, too, is the reconfiguration of the world through our fingers. Our signature and our silent cry to the world. It is almost like a form of prayer.

It is in this attentiveness that the difference emerges:

What might seem like dull chores to one person can be "sacred" rituals to another.

When we approach repetition with reverence, even routine becomes art. Even silence becomes song.

I am a nomad, but I believe home is something we create, not inherit.

The places I long for are places where I’ve left pieces of myself—where I’ve made coffee, sung songs, cried quietly, loved someone, made something by hand.

And prayer, regardless of belief in a god, is a posture of awe and gratitude toward the world. It is the forgiveness of our own imperfection. The quiet release of unbearable pain. The hope we offer to futures and others we cannot control.

To pray is not always to speak—but to stand before the world, vulnerable and sincere.

Maybe, guess that might be the kind of life that makes sense to me.

I want to become a woman like my grandmother. Like Kiki’s mother in Kiki’s Delivery Service, or a wise woman in a quiet forest, whose love is not loud, but present in everything she touches.

Again, just my random thoughts.