Home is a tiny warm orbit to return to after a day of bright lights and uncertain newness and potential face-thrusting-into challenges that seem to often occur only after I’ve finished my shift. It’s a small, safe place to ponder the planting of winter gardens and admiring the growing attachment between sister and brother and the steady thrum of old sewing machines churning out the almost undetectable thrills of double-sided cloth wipes and draft-stoppers crammed full of holey socks (I knew it was a good idea to save them!).

It’s a good place to sip cider by the roaring pot-belly stove, to celebrate 27 years of life (and my mother’s 24 epic hours of labour) and to entwine myself amongst the loving limbs of my affectionate people.

It feels like catch up time. There is time to sleep, gaze, ponder, plan, do a little growing. A very different pace from the past year. And plenty of time for, as someone around here likes to say: Acuddle.