One day I came home with an entire pallet of sheep fleeces.

No, really.

A whole pallet.

When the farm called to ask if I could use some wool, I imagined a few fleeces. Instead, I found myself standing beside a mountain of wool waiting for a new home.

There was a winery. A petting zoo. Families enjoying a beautiful afternoon.

And there I was, skirting fleece.

Before long, curious visitors wandered over.

"What is she doing?"

"Why is she throwing some of it away?"

Frank happily answered every question, explaining why some wool stayed and some had to go. I think he enjoyed having an audience every bit as much as I enjoyed working.

Before I knew it, I had become one of the day's attractions.

By the time we left, every fleece had found its way into the truck.

That was only the beginning.

Over the next several weeks, I washed every one of them.

One fleece at a time.

Soap.

Hot water.

Patience.

Then drying.

Eventually, each one was tucked into a vacuum-sealed bag, where most still rest today beneath my studio.

People often ask if I know what each fleece will become.

The truth is...

I don't.

I rarely decide that on the day I bring it home.

Sometimes I open a bag months later.

Sometimes years.

I spread the fleece across my table, run my hands through it, and wait.

I've learned not to rush that moment.

Some fleece wants to be spun.

Some wants to be felted.

Some completely something else.

The fleece usually tells me.

This week, one of those bags was finally opened. I found myself back in that familiar rhythm, preparing wool for spinning while Frank worked in the studio building a new backdrop. I spent hours making soft batts, gently pulling out those tiny second cuts that every hand spinner knows so well—still smiling, and occasionally muttering at the shearer who left them there.

The spinning wheel waits patiently nearby.

Its turn will come.

People often admire the finished handbag, the woven cloth, or the completed piece hanging on a wall.

Those are beautiful moments.

But they aren't my favorite part.

My favorite part has always been this quiet conversation between my hands and the wool—the part where nothing has been decided yet, where possibility still exists.

I'm in no hurry.
Neither is the wool.

— Karen Borga