The Woman Who Did Something

The woman twisted wool until her fingers bled. She ran the thread through the loom, weaving it back and forth. The pattern moved under her meticulous care, battened by a repetitive force that might have been better suited to a pickaxe.

    When the first blanket was finished, she began another. And then another.

    It wasn't that she was cruel to herself. She was only stubborn. Blankets needed to be made, and she had a spindle, a loom, two perfectly suitable hands. And time.

    Plenty of time.

    Too much, and her head would think until it spun. 

    There was always a worry that it would suddenly spin off.

    Too little time... did anyone really, truly have too little time? she wondered. Impossible, really, she decided. There was no such thing as too little time. Only destroyed time, only wasted time. She would have none of that.  Not since she had rejected quick and easy and painless; there was nothing in leisure for a mind that wanted peace.

    Blankets. That is what she had found to do. Something to contribute. Something that fulfilled a need; poor, wretched bodies would always need blankets.

    And while her muscles ached and her fingers bled, her thinking felt like purpose.

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