My wool pillow

Is love looking past the superficial for what’s pure and true, and deeply, not necessarily densely, there?

It’s a pillow. It’s just made of wool. It shouldn’t be worth discussing. It is nothing special. In fact, it’s quite annoying. And that’s why I’m writing about it. Because I have this pillow that annoys me, but I’ve come around and decided I love it.

It’s a simple story, really. I like wool. Merino. Lambswool. Shetland. Cashmere. Alpaca. I like wool. Recently, I needed a pillow. We also needed sheets. Joe bought sheets, and the company sold pillows. Specifically, a wool pillow. He bought it for me.

I got you a pillow. It’s a fancy pillow.

What kind?

It’s wool.

I’d never used a wool pillow. I’d used feathers and hadn’t liked them. They got too condensed, even hard, after some time. I’d used faux down. They’re supposed to not get dense. But it got too light and dispersed. I don’t know how it works, but I didn’t like it. So why not wool? I love wool.

The pillow arrived, and I was excited. I was truly excited about this pillow. It could’ve been something. Really something.

But it smelled. And I don’t know why I didn’t see that coming. I’ve had sweaters that have smelled. It’s always the ones from Scotland. I’m sorry, but it’s true. The pillow smelled like a Scottish sweater. Like a sheep. A wet sheep.

The pillow wasn’t wet. It was dry and bouncy. Actually, the give was perfect.

I gave it a shot. I slept with my nose pointing up that night. The morning after, my head smelled like Scottish wool.

Woman Sleeping by Sándor Liezen-Mayer (1867)

The smell is musky. But not musty. It’s airy. But it’s air filtered through sheep’s hair. A little like mud and grass, and it got into my hair and also my pajamas. I didn’t want to wear my pajamas for a second night, as I usually did.

I washed my pajamas after that one wear. Then I left the pillow on our kids’ unused top bunk. They kicked it off. Then I left the pillow on our bean bag chair. I passed it every day. I checked on it every week or so. The smell didn’t change with time.

After a month, I started using it again. I wondered if it needed a head to wear it in. I figured my husband would’ve told me if the sheep smell bothered him. It didn’t bother him.

One night turned to two. I re-wore my pajamas.

One week turned to two. I woke without even a grimace. I put the pajamas on the next night without grimacing.

I woke, smelled my hair, and kind of smiled. I got in bed and squeezed the pillow between my arms and rested my cheek on it, and the smell wafted up into my face, and I smiled.

I smiled about the dirt, and dried grass, and the international sheep’s hair smell. I flicked my hair and smelt a bonfire. I closed my eyes and was outside.

It was many months before I read the label and saw the pillow was made of 100% British wool.

Now I wonder what this all says about me. About my adoration for the once unbearable. For the pillow I sleep with that once repulsed me. I wonder what it says about love. Or if it says anything at all.

What does it mean when love grows on you? Can adoration come from persistence and wearing down? Or is it the wearing in that adapts something imperfect to your specific needs? Is love looking past the superficial for what’s pure and true, and deeply, not necessarily densely, there?

I’m not the one to say. I just like wool. Even Scottish wool, when it’s a gift from my husband, who happens to be English. He wasn’t born in Scotland, but our last name is Burns.

I’ve made my bed. And so I lay in it.

I hope reading Happy Endings feels like writing Happy Endings — a way to reflect on love and keep it an active part of your week.

Your attention feels like love to me, too. Thank you for reading and supporting this practice.

Speaking of practice... My Praxxxis series — putting Happy Endings into practice — returns for its fifth installment this Thursday.