The yarn has been twisted into a new thing, this thing that feels like home. I can feel the ridges of the stitches beneath my feet, lining up in the same rhythm I used when I made them. It’s a warm pressure, soothing in the face of the glaring bareness of winter glowing through my window. It holds the pull of sleep, of dreams, of the things that only find a voice when our eyes are closed.
Where I Stand Sunday is an ongoing photo essay examining the different places I spend my life standing. Too often we take for granted the everyday places we spend our lives walking on. The ground we tread on has its own stories to tell.