Her fingers were relentless, working the root fibers back and forth, back and forth, smooth; arms and shoulders made strong with the repetition of mat making. In a crumbling stone building, the women of Yamoransah toil daily to transform roots into food and mats. Our worlds were separated by barely bridgeable miles and lifetimes of experience. Our lives were mutually incomprehensible. Yet, in this moment I was blessed by her grace.