One result of spending time where it is so quiet that sounds become distinct,
where it is so quiet that it is possible to hear the flap of a buzzard's wing when it flies by,
or where nature is so loud that the sounds of humanity are drowned out for the most part, is that the everyday sounds of normal life are all that much more noticeable as a constant. Pockets of quiet can be hard to come by.
I asked my uncle to cut me a few rounds of redwood for spindles. I'm still playing with the construction a bit, but this works.
I've been spinning a bit every night. Finding a bit of my own quiet space.