When I was very little, it was not songs that rocked me, but the rustle of fabric 👵🧵

Grandma sewed in the evenings - and her machine rattled almost like a lullaby. Then I did not understand why she did not buy a ready-made dress, why she made jam herself 🍓, and why she needed an old chest of drawers with threads, buttons and measurements. Now I know: there was meaning in it. Deep, warm, real.

Once, when I was about seven, I cut my hand, and my grandmother wasn’t scared — she just wiped the blood with her handkerchief, which she sewed herself, and whispered: “You will still learn to understand why we do things with our own hands” ✋❤️. Then I just cried. Now I understand.

Years later, I catch myself thinking that everything my fingers touch, I feel in my heart 💓. I can’t knit like she does. But I kneaded the dough for a pie that didn’t turn out, and I still felt loved. Because the process itself became a way for me to be alive 🌱.

For some reason, handwork is not about skill, but about attitude. About attention. About slow, warm, thoughtful ☕. When you create a thing, it’s not just a thing. It’s history.

I started buying handmade candles 🕯️. I collect old things, restored by hand. I order clothes from artisans, even if it is more expensive. I want to feel that behind each line there is someone real. Whose hands were shaking, who got up early 🌄, who was worried whether it would turn out beautifully.

When I give such things - it is as if I give time ⏳. And when I receive - I always think whose fingers touched this fabric, this cup ☕, this frame. And it seems that there is no distance between us. Only warmth.