Has your skin ever craved a texture you could not name? Have you ever held strange cloth to your cheek, and felt your heart thud?
There was a village in Scotland. Paisley. Tiny town of weavers who became known as radical labor agitators. Weaving offers too much time for dangerous talk. Weavers of Paisley learned how to turn out imitation ambi, on imitation Kashmiri shawls, and got to keep their index fingers and thumbs.
Until Kashmiri became cashmere, Mosuleen became muslin. Ambi became paisley.
And a hundred and fifty years later, chai became a beverage invented in California.
How many ways can you splice a history? Price a country? Dice a people? Slice a heart? Entice what’s been erased back into story? My-gritude.
Have you ever taken a word in your hand, dared to shape your palm to the hollow where the fullness falls away? Have you ever pointed it back to its beginning? Felt it leap and shudder in your fingers like a dowsing rod? Jerk like a severed thumb? Flare with the forbidden name of a goddess returning? My-gritude.
Have you ever set out to search for a missing half? The piece that isn’t shapely, elegant, simple. The half that’s ugly, heavy, abrasive. Awkward to the hand. Gritty on the tongue.