sometimes it is when the darning pile overflows the mending basket, that you realise what is important
you're there with your darning needle, trying to match the colour of the yarn, trying to make the stiches so tiny they are not noticeable, trying to decide if what is best is actually a patch of something else to cover up a hole too big to mend. . .
then you look down at your feet (the sky is too far away today) and see the worn-out carpet beneath you and notice (not for the first time) the warp and the weft - so much more important in the structure of the whole, than the beautiful (or crazy) pattern woven in over the top
raggedy seams, loose ends, tears ripping thru the fabric of its construction: like raggle-taggle gipsies and street-urchins grinning up at you, tears long dried up but leaving their paths marked as lines thru the grime on their cheeks
the odd spark of octarine (there is life in the old thing yet)
but where to start. . .