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Flittering like a leaf
caught in an old cobweb
on the side of a house

desperately hanging on
but will eventually release
and drift to the ground

like old things in our lives
they cling until the season passes
and nature finally makes us let go.

-k. thompson, Until the Season Passes

“$14.07 please,” says the cashier.

I reach into my wallet remembering that I have a few spare coins to give even change.

But then I stop. Do I even try?

I feel that familiar rush of anxiety that tells me not to.

What if I drop a coin? I can’t really see anything in there. What if I can’t find it? I’ll look like an idiot. Then they’ll notice my tremors, and even worse, maybe say something about my shaking hands. I don’t look sick but I am. They’ll think something is wrong but this is my normal. I don’t want them to know. Wait - I do want them to know - compassionately, that is. But not now, not as part of some public humiliation ritual. What if they think I’m drunk? What kind of grown woman can’t just pay for something in a store? There are people behind me, waiting.

“Just give me time,” I breathe to myself.

I pull open the zipper to search for the coins. My disobedient fingers fumble as I grab a few. My heart races and my head gets cloudy. I slowly count them out, one nickle, two pennies. I reach over to hand them to the cashier, my arm trembles.

“Thank you.” they respond, with that look. It’s mixture of confusion and concern followed by realization, and pity.

I smile briefly, grab my bag and walk out the door. I feel the massive pressure of such a small, simple act release itself from my shoulders and I am relieved, sad, and resolved all at one.

I wonder what more could be possible if we could just give ourselves time.

-k. thompson, Give Me Time

From my studio...

I've always been mesmerized by stories, history, and the artifacts we leave behind that help shape our understanding of each other through time. In my woodworking craft I like to focus on projects with historical or personal ties, sourcing mostly from the local areas of Charleston and the surrounding Lowcountry.

My latest project involves a Lowcountry historical site that has become deeply personal to me. Without spilling too much of the details I did want to share some photos from behind the scenes for a project like this that many don't get to see. On a bright November morning I had the honor to watch this dying tree fall so that I can work with what is left, and contribute what will be my small part of this intricate story. I felt the eyes of the ancestral spirits watching as we prepared this tree to transform it's life once again. Here are some photos from my visits this fall...

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I also had the joy of bringing my family to the site to experience this with me. Joseph as always provided his gentle guidance. What a blessing it brings me to do what I love with those I love. I shared the emotions of the experience in recent poem, Rings of Time...

Gathering of stories
harvest of history
my voice speaks this time.
In honor of those
who have become before.
I grasp the dirt in my hands.
Run my fingers over the rough bark.
I watching the river flowing
close my eyes graced by the sunshine.
Such a rich tapestry
where nature’s masterpiece
meets with humanity's
interwoven pieces
complex yet whole.
As life cycles so do the trees.
Roots entangled in the soil
let them carry on
telling the story.
My hands the tool.
My heart the vessel.
Continue on.

-k. thompson

Thank you for your continued readership and support,

Katie T.

P.S. If you'd like to further support my work become a paid subscriber!​