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Modern textiles have divorced us from wool’s reality:
- We don’t know the months of labor in every sweater
- We can’t read regional identity in factory-made patterns
- We’ve lost the communal work songs that accompanied fulling
- We’ve forgotten that clothing was once precious, maintained carefully, passed through generations
But somewhere, someone still shears sheep in spring, cards wool by hand, spins thread on drop spindles, and weaves tartan on traditional looms. The knowledge persists, fragile but unbroken.
The sheep gives.
The spinner twists.
The pattern announces.
And wool becomes the barrier between flesh and frost.
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