I don't know about you, but I've been hand stitching like my life depends on it. Actually, I think it does, as creating a rhythm with needle and thread has become a form of meditation that soothes my tired brain and heart. This poem by Mary Oliver calms and comforts, too.

In Praise of Craziness of a Certain Kind

On cold evenings, my grandmother,
with ownership of half her mind -
the other half having flown back to Bohemia -

spread newspapers over the porch floor so, she said, the garden ants could crawl beneath, as under a blanket, and keep warm,

And what shall I wish for, for myself,
But, being so struck by the lightning of years, to be like her with what is left, that loving.