I stepped into Copper + Cloves with the quiet hesitation of someone entering a forgotten chapter of their own life. They called it Analog Club. Although the word felt charmingly old-fashioned, my thumb still reached for my pocket, searching for a phone I was about to give up. When the device left my hand at the counter, like a bird flying out of a cage, I didn’t expect to feel so light. A momentary discomfort, like stepping into cold water, gave way to something warmer, fuller… a return.
When the device left my hand at the counter, like a bird flying out of a cage, I didn’t expect to feel so light.
The room glowed with gentle noise: the laughter of strangers, the clink of mugs, the rustle of leaves pressed into artwork, the rhythm of crochet hooks moving in unison. A living tapestry of people from every walk of life – designers, writers, students, parents, wanderers, dreamers – wove itself into the space. What surprised me most wasn’t how easily they blended, but how no one lost the edges of who they were. Their uniqueness didn’t dissolve into the group; it shimmered. It stayed, like the distinct colors of threads braided into the same cord.
A living tapestry of people from every walk of life
On one side, a circle of crocheters sat like a quiet galaxy spinning yarn into small constellations. A girl trying her first stitch leaned into an elderly woman who guided her fingers, their hands overlapping like a moment of generational grace. Mistakes were not corrected so much as woven into the pattern; new friendships found their rhythm in soft laughter and shared loops. It wasn’t skill that mattered here but presence – being fully in the moment, one knot at a time.
a circle of crocheters sat like a quiet galaxy spinning yarn into small constellations.
A louder corner housed a board game group. Dice rolled. Rules bent. Strategies fell apart and were remade. Strangers became teammates and opponents in minutes. One man who claimed to be “terrible at board games” ended up leading an entire table to victory, and his shy grin stayed long after the game ended. The room had a way of revealing parts of people they seemed surprised to still possess.
A louder corner housed a board game group.
Across from them, a small group exchanged childhood stories – fragile, funny, oddly universal tales about school corridors, chalk dust, PE periods, lunch battles, strict teachers, and the odd tenderness of friendships made on playgrounds. I overheard someone say, “I didn’t realize how much I missed telling these stories.” And it struck me then: the analog club wasn’t just bringing people into the moment; it was pulling dormant memories back into light.
“I didn’t realize how much I missed telling these stories.”
But the art table- that was where silence became a language of its own. Impression art using leaves, paint, textures, and bits of nature. Each person created a world on paper, and no two worlds looked alike. “I forgot I could do this,” whispered a woman dabbing gold paint onto a eucalyptus leaf. Another confessed, “I’ve been doing digital art on my iPad for years, but working with real leaves… real paint… it’s something else. My hands feel involved. My mind feels awake.” Someone else added, with a soft laugh, “I didn’t know how much I missed painting until now.”
Each person created a world on paper, and no two worlds looked alike.
Watching them, I realized each artwork was a lens – an invitation into how each person saw the world. Some saw shadows and shapes, others saw dreams and gentle illusions, and yet others painted versions of themselves they didn’t know were waiting to reappear.
…each artwork was a lens – an invitation into how each person saw the world.
Food drifted into the experience like a warm exhale: delicious bowls, bread, salads, and desserts that felt like edible hugs. People ate slowly, thoughtfully – an odd thing in a world where meals are often hurried between notifications. Here, flavors had room to bloom. Conversations wrapped around spoons and forks, lingering long after plates were empty.
Conversations wrapped around spoons and forks, lingering long after plates were empty.
And all the while, every person in the room seemed busy – not with deadlines or screens – but with living. There was no scroll, no check-in, no digital hum in the background. The absence of gadgets didn’t create emptiness; it created abundance. Time stretched. Time softened. Time flew.
As the evening deepened, I felt something settle inside me – a thought, gentle yet undeniable: Belonging is not a place. It’s a moment. This place had crafted many such moments with the tender art of attention. Nobody had come here to prove anything. Nobody tried to outshine. Everyone simply was, and somehow that was enough.
By the time I picked up my phone at the counter again, it felt strangely foreign. Heavy. Almost unnecessary. The world outside hadn’t changed, but something within me had.
I walked out of Copper + Cloves understanding what the Analog Club truly offered: not an escape from technology, but a reunion with ourselves.
… not an escape from technology, but a reunion with ourselves.
