Somewhere between zen and folktales, somewhere between child's play and wisdom, somewhere between dreaming the world and healing it. Read these stories aloud - to your child, to your love, or to yourself beneath a sacred tree.
From Deas and Other Imaginings
In a single room with no window and a sagging plank door that scraped the stone threshold, off of a dark alley too narrow for carts, a girl lived with her widowed mother. The mother took in mending, spending her days in a chair in the doorway, bent over a darning bob and an old sock or a needle and an open seam or a patch fitted carefully to yet another pair of trousers with gaping knees.
The clothes she mended were worn, often threadbare, for those were hard times and the neighbors had little more than the woman and child. But she mended them carefully as if they were treasured garments, nearly new, torn by some quirk accident rather than the steady grind of hard work. "Someday," she said to her daughter. "Someday I will be a seamstress and you will help me cut cloth from heavy bolts of linen and wool and bright folds of silk from faraway lands. We will lay them out in a sunny room with a long table, and the breeze from the sea will dance through our window and muss the fabric if we forget to weight it with stones."