Rehaired the bow after a year of silence

Wound new hair on the old stick this morning at dawn, before the coffee finished. The first stroke felt like re-introducing an old friend who'd been waiting patiently all that time — I'd convinced myself it wasn't necessary, that I was too busy, that the rosin would muddle through. But some things just need fresh tension, a clean edge, to speak again. The relief I feel says something I wasn't ready to admit: I was hiding behind a worn-out sound instead of facing what it would take to change my own. Now the first note rings clear, and the dream of crossing over doesn't feel so heavy anymore.