pneuma

Fin

2010-11-25T08:39:00.007-06:00

300 posts and three years ago I started typing here. In my first post I wrote opening up even a tiny window to myself made me want to throw up; I feared it. I feared the leap. Thus I knew I had to begin. Now I have spent weeks feeling bad for neglecting pneuma, so very much a part of myself, but to limp along and post poorly would be disingenuous and unfair to the spirit of this blog. I would no more ignore a broken limb than pretend this blog has not reached its natural end.

Saying goodbye, not to you, for you will always be there, but to this chapter of myself is bittersweet. Lives and circumstances change, new lands are to be explored, new outlets are to be created, but not here, not right now. So, with an intense feeling of gratitude and an equally strong feeling of nausea, I am taking a deep breath and letting go. I've packed my bag to the brim with moons, poets, philosophers, photographs, and your encouragements, so the journey ahead will never find me lacking in inspiration or love. I need to be authentically myself, to create spontaneously and freely, to accept this ending so I may be forged by a new beginning. This much I have figured out.

Comfort

2010-11-06T16:20:00.005-05:00

Such an odd word; one of those words that sounds even more ridiculous when repeated. One of those words you think you know the meaning of until some annoyingly smug person asks for your definition. Then you blunder and come up with a brilliant response like,"um, uh, potatoes?"

Comfort is a terribly vague and individualized concept yet a very simple one. We usually associate comfort with passivity; a comfortable bed, a comforting bath, comfort food. The meaning is anything but passive however. Comfort is an active, immediate, sometimes revolutionary gift. Comfort is supportive, soothing, easing, calming, and transforming. Makes it seem comfort can only be applied as a salve to wound; a spiritual, emotional, or physical poultice of sorts.

I'm not so sure comfort is always born of pain. I had a comforting moment earlier today in the library. I was browsing, lost in my thoughts, when I picked up a book because I liked the cover and was struck with an idea for a story, one sentence plucked from the ether and suddenly I was present in a way I haven't been in a month or more. The sentence tumbled around in my brain in the voice of the character, a woman of indeterminate age, her soft drawl classic Savannah, Ga steeped in mid tones of menthol cool and bourbon warmth, and her hair the color of an autumnal sugar maple leaf glowing in late afternoon sunlight. I listened to her speaking to me, trying to remember exactly what she was saying,"...everyone dreams of having a personal story to tell. Most people live their lives in search of a preamble so enviable it makes one drunk on self importance faster than the bottom glass of prom punch. Unfortunately we all come to realize the most incredible stories of our lives are also the ones we are ashamed to tell."

And so, how comforting to be struck by inspiration again, when all else is whirlwind and flux, the gift of comfort can come from within, not to heal a wound, but to reassure my imagination will never fail me no matter the circumstances I find myself facing.

I've realized, in the looking back, if tears come to my eyes, it is not necessarily for having failed or feeling regret; this comforting tide of emotion is for having dared accomplish something so profound the very grain of my life was changed. I triumphed in some invisible manner; cutting my inner self on the bias so that life will fit me more beautifully than before.

There was a new voice which you slowly recognized as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world, determined to do the only thing you could do- determined to save the only life you could save. Mary Oliver

Happy Halloween!

2010-10-31T08:33:00.004-05:00

Wishing you and all of your children

a safe and spooky Halloween!

Return

2010-10-19T12:41:00.005-05:00

The leaves here are beginning to turn; a hint of orange amongst the pines, a shock of red painting the elms, the gentle browning of stubborn oaks. The weeds, first to rise and first to turn, glow and shimmer in flaxen waves like bolts of gilded silk unfurled.

On my commute to work, I pass a lovely farm with horses that graze on rolling hills. The sun rising over the mountain illuminates only the soft tips of their ears by the time I arrive alongside this simple fence to sit in traffic. When the mornings are chilly, a mist blankets this busy stretch of county road, rendering the landscape otherworldly. From beneath the ghostly veil of fog crows suddenly take flight in silence; nursery rhymes and poetry written in black ink across the rosy sky.

Here I sit and wonder over how fortunate I am to experience these moments. Each tiny curling leaf, shifting ray of autumnal light, whisper of chill breeze and transient geese, each fragment of seasonal beauty I harvest all create within me a home. This home I can always return to no matter the new adventures I begin or the familiar places I leave behind. This collected home is me; my foundation of skipping stones, my frames of crisp leaves, my rafters of feathers and moonlight, my hearth kept warm by laughter and love.

All things on Earth point home in old October; sailors to sea, travellers to walls and fences, hunters to field and hollow and the long voice of the hounds, the lover to the love he has forsaken.

Thomas Wolfe

Harvest Moon

2010-09-23T17:02:00.008-05:00

Tonight, the full Harvest Moon, tucked away in crowded mental files, for the day I find I've lived my last and need to recall once again the beauty that was never mine. She belongs to no man and we are a sad lot for taking her for granted; especially one so lovely and precious. This moon changes you, forces you to pause and reflect, to go slowly through your intentions like stepping stones through a zen garden. This moon reveals things, uncovers them at their most awkward, painful, and spare. This is a moon of childbirth, lunatics, and dreams coming to fruition or lost under the tines.

The harvest moon serves to remind us the seeds we planted so long ago have come to bear for good or bad and we are each responsible for our own lot. My sincerest hope is the majority of your harvests bring you what you desire, bless you with bounty in all good things, and if they are lacking, may you find in your heart the seeds for next spring.

Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns. George Eliot

Rudimentary

2010-09-16T13:43:00.001-05:00

I do not own a desk.
My work is built in the ether.
Spread across beds and couches.
On shabby cat clawed chairs.
Swept into tidy piles of dusty spiders.
Under sunlight, moonlight, lamp light.
Between cracks in the grout and mildew.
Inside machines and engines with rpm.
Beside lovers and friends and enemies.
Over asphalt and glass and gravel.
Below the grass and dirt and slate mountains.
Etched on subterranean rock with my thumbnail.
Stained on the dome of the sky in my blood.
Orbiting in the space between you and the universe.
Winged and free like hawks and butterflies.

The Geometry Of Shelter

2010-09-08T14:22:00.005-05:00

My virtual friend, the Lady, has honored me by reading my flash fiction story Litmus on her podcast, Call of the Lark. She did a wonderful job and I am humbled to be appreciated by her in this way. Thank you! Check out her podcast; she will be reading literature and poetry as well as taking submissions.

In her introduction, she spoke to my writing here in this space, and the pieces of ourselves we share with the world. Often we bloggers write to cast ourselves in the best light possible, but we also operate under the knowledge that life is not all pretty prose or well crafted pieces of art; life is the chaotic stimulus gestating these shared mementos. Sometimes it takes the hardships to produce a beautiful sentiment, a thoughtful gift, or a genuine reflection. Sometimes it takes joys to make us see how much hardship we unintentionally create.

This space, this small room called pneuma, is a window into my musings. I'm really here, passing by the window every so often, offering a glimpse inside. This space is a comfort to me, a fire-lit hearth room of sorts, where I can be myself, but not negative, not pressured, not anything for anyone but me. It is a shelter; a safe haven.

There are other shelters I seek refuge in; places I can be someone else. For example, in my stories, I can be anything or anyone. I can be any saturated color of emotion and paint for you a picture that would move you to tears or laughter, make you want to hang it on your wall or burn it to ashes. This shelter is the basement; inhabited by clicking claw creatures. These shadowy figures are the ephemeral ideas and emotions I brave the darkness to gather and craft into a story.

I am grateful for being able to share my home with you; both the cozy rooms as well as the dark corners. The doors here are never locked; make yourself at home.

Perspective

2010-09-03T08:12:00.005-05:00

The banks of the creek are steep; a dearth of rain has exposed the deep roots of the great leaning elms and oaks to air they are unaccustomed to feeling. These trees remember now what it is like to be a sapling; struggling again for a hold, a grasp on their place in the world. Below them the creek flows, its thin waters crystal clear, the rains of autumn have yet to fill them with clay and silt. In these shallows, beside the mossy gnarled roots, we sought refuge from the heat of the day.

We waded into the water, the creek bed shimmering with tiny pebbles, shells, and smooth stones. Ahead of us, to the west, a small curve in the bank was tattooed with skinny finger prints, like a dozen children escaped in their pajamas and toddled here for a moonlit meeting. They left behind what to my eyes looked like drowning butterflies, iridescent and glimmering, beckoning me to touch. The raccoons had feasted on the mussels, each delicate shell left clean centimeters below the flowing surface; a simple meal for them, a moment of wonder for me.

My children and I sat for an hour there, catching breezes and chasing minnows with our toes. We collected many of the open mussel shells, their lovely shades of lavender and silver muted in our hands. At some point I became restless, thinking we needed to leave, we had been there for so long. But a simple question from my youngest stopped my rushing things immediately, "Why?"

All of my wanderings and dreaming and seeking the depths, and I still fall prey to my adult perception of time. I forget what it is like to be a child, when time had no value, no relativity other than spending all the time it takes to enjoy, explore, and learn. They know intuitively to spend the least of it worrying, not having fun, and forgetting the really important things. They reminded me to be a sapling again everyday, even every moment, and to appreciate the gift of being alive; struggling again for a hold, a grasp on my place in the world.

We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are.

Anaïs Nin

si[x]

2010-08-23T06:22:00.002-05:00

When I received this lace weight wool I was enamored. I would have worn the skeins draped over my neck but for unavoidable tangles and inevitable heartache. Instead, I made a sculptural piece comprised of six varied circles, allowed to curl inward and reveal their hidden sides. This piece is bold, unique, beautiful, and inspiring. Reticence does not orbit here.

Boring bits:
Pattern: sev[en] circle by Kirsten Johnstone a.k.a assemblage
Needles: US #5 circs
Wool: Knit Picks Gloss Lace (held doubled) in 'mermaid'
Mods: aplenty...on ravelry.

Litmus

2010-08-21T06:58:00.003-05:00

My story is up on Metazen today!

In Whispers

2010-08-17T11:37:00.000-05:00

in black and white here

Few things come to us in whispers; condolences, apologies, and declarations of love come to mind. The mind, however, is not receptive to whispers; only the heart can hear them. So we must be unnaturally quiet and uncomfortably still to catch these wisps of intention. We must remove ourselves from the noisy chattering clamor of life in order to look within, open our hearts, and receive whatever messages the spirited winds bring us. Can you hear them? No?

You've gotten away, you've looked within, you've cleared your soul's shelves and you are ready! Ready to begin whatever it is you are to supposed to begin. But then you wait, and you grow impatient, and you don't understand why after all of this preparation you don't hear anything! You don't hear the answers you seek. You don't hear the directions you desire! Right about now all you hear are the screaming nerves of your half-asleep right butt cheek. You cannot hear anything for all of the noise your mind is making. The most difficult part of self discovery is mistaking getting away for getting out of your own way.

For a long time, my inner voice would loudly declare, "I really would love to be part of the group I admire on Flickr, but none of my photos are good enough."

Then one day, I stepped out from my own shadow, and I was invited to contribute to the archival moon & waiting. They chose to include one of my photos this week.

For a long time, my inner voice would loudly declare, "I love to write flash fiction, but mine are too angst and foul language ridden to be published."

Then one day I simply submitted a story. I created it and set it free. It has come back to me. On Saturday, August 21st, my story will be published on Metazen.

These are small accomplishments, sure, but for me they are huge. They are proof I listened when my heart heard the whisper, "it is time to stop living on wishes and start creating the life you want."

This is the beginning.

Fox Socks

2010-08-07T08:45:00.007-05:00

When my brother returned from Europe, he came bearing gifts. He has a rare and precious talent for gift giving; he picks out of the ether the exact thing you would have procured for yourself had you been there. In my case, a skein of sock yarn and a beautiful white stone from the cliffs of Etretat. Two of my favorite things; wool and cliffs overlooking the sea. These socks are a global affair. A man from America travels abroad, wanders into a shop in Holland, and picks out German wool made from Italian sheep. You all know by now I am addicted to knitting socks. I find it amusingly ironic he would buy my drug of choice (sock wool) in Amsterdam.

They also remind me of the colors of a fox. Fox is my middle name for those of you who didn't know. So here I am, Heather Fox, in fox colored socks. They are finished, super comfy, and my new favorite pair. Thank you, dear Michael, I love them and you!

Details on ravelry.

7

2010-07-29T08:45:00.006-05:00

Seven (7): wonders of the world, continents, dwarves, days of the week, deadly sins, virtues, planets (Pluto was wronged so I'm kicking out Neptune too), alchemical metals, bushido virtues, veils dance, layer dip, jeans, seas, sacraments, summits, archangels, chakras, pillars of wisdom, up, -11 slurpees, years this child has blessed my life.

Happy Birthday my beautiful girl!

Western Bread and Eastern Thought

2010-07-24T13:35:00.011-05:00

While kneading dough on my counter I was pondering the reasons making bread calms and centers me. I have recipes for no-knead bread; no mess, no hassle, no time spent, but it is these very things that I find so fulfilling. I love how all of my senses are engaged. I have no cares heavier than the cool flour powdering the air as the dough forms beneath my palms. I have no fears the sight of the dough rising to its purpose cannot assuage. I am far from doubt as the aroma fills the house. I am peaceful and contented as the crust crackles and I savor the first delicious bite.

Lao Tzu wrote, we shape clay into a pot, but it is the emptiness inside that holds whatever we want. I find my self empty, waiting to be filled, in the smallest of moments; the winding of wool on the swift, noticing the light shifting from eastern blue to western gold in the rooms I wander, and listening to the laughter of loved ones so lovely it makes me pause and miss them even at arm's length. This reverential simplicity, these fleeting wabi sabi moments, fill me with the meaningful feelings; patience, faith, love, humility, gratitude, trust, acceptance, leaving no room for suffering I do not need.

These simple acts have two things in common: transience and possibility. They are as fleeting as doves, perched upon the edge of becoming something else altogether; the yeast and flour sustaining bread, the wool a comforting garment, the light another day moving us closer, laughter reminding us life is finite. But as beautiful as these thoughts are, nothing is definite; the bread could burn, the wool knot and fray, the storm keep the light from us for days, the laughter turning to a sob. Thich Nhat Hanh said, "People have a hard time letting go of their suffering. Out of a fear of the unknown, they prefer suffering that is familiar."

I must strive to approach life as a collection of these simple moments and allow myself to be emptied over and over, to let go of my fears, to be brave in the darkness and fill myself with light. I must illuminate my own path. My dough has risen now; another simple moment has moved before us and I am grateful you paused to share it with me.

Ad Finem Socks

2010-07-19T09:44:00.007-05:00

Two Halloweens ago, I knit my Headless Hessian socks. Still a fave pair. Last Halloween I had intended to knit a witchy striped pair of knee socks. Intended. Still intending. Will definitely (maybe) get to them. This year? I started a nice respectable pair of grey socks and somehow by the end was adding in selbu skulls in a fit of pure whimsy if whimsy were dark and threatening of course. So, I am early for Halloween and the ever popular blog-fodder National Talk Like a Pirate Day on Sept. 19th. Go figure.

Details on ravelry. Aargh.

Shop Update

2010-07-12T08:04:00.008-05:00

Pneuma shop updated! You are all invited to stop by. I've thrown in a couple knitting images for all of my wool minded pals and a few from the beautiful places I've visited recently.

The above image is one of my favorites since it is of my favorite girl wearing my favorite guy's favorite shoes in her second favorite color. Uncle Michael should be proud. We are all proud of this girl, this smart, beautiful, graceful girl, who wants me to mention this is her new bike as well in her first favorite color.

She has made it her mission to read and memorize all the poems in my collection of Shel Silverstein. I did the same as a child. Which one was your favorite? The moving Where the Sidewalk Ends? Or perhaps the uncomfortably inevitable Boa Constrictor? I love them all.

Listen to the musn'ts child. Listen to the don'ts.

Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts.

Listen to the never haves...then listen close to me.

Anything can happen child. Anything can be.

Shel Silverstein

ETA: I'm in the feature again on the POE blog! Thanks guys!

A Study in Record Breaking Procrastination

2010-07-01T11:03:00.010-05:00

There comes a time when even the most productive knitter has to accept she or he is not immune to SSS. I was hit hard. Blindsided by what I thought would never happen to me; second sock syndrome. Now I know it is real and it is nearly fatal. But I survived and anyone who can overcome self imposed obstacles to fulfillment deserves to celebrate. Grab a partner and throw yourselves into an impromptu Flamenco on the kitchen chairs while singing about the color purple at the top of your lungs. Trust me, frivolity and dancing cure anything. I wonder if in thirty years she will grab her children and ask them to dance on chairs. I hope so.

Boring Bits:
Wool: Pigeonroof Studios Original Sock in cassis gifted from the incomparable and lovely Larkin.
Needles: US# 1 DPN

Please send me your last pair of shoes,

worn out with dancing as you mentioned in your letter,

so that I might have something to press against my heart.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Summer Manifesto

2010-06-25T12:39:00.007-05:00

It Is Light

2010-06-21T06:28:00.004-05:00

Another solstice; so many now I've remarked upon, set store on, imaginary marks flourished in an archived digital calendar. All of this science to mark a date as important when this planet and this sun have been celestially waltzing for an eternity. But we need to make our marks; our personal scratches in the sand. We want something tangible to show for having been here; for having lived. All of our hurts, joys, doubt, compassion, and even anger, beg to be traded for something of value. But what is this mysterious something, this value, this qualifying factor? Is it even real?

I've been asked this question many times from many different people the past few weeks. Is it real? How do you answer a question like that? Is this rock in my hand real? Yes. Why? Because I see it. But say you are blind. Now is that rock real? Yes. Why? Because I feel it. I can tell you how heavy this rock is. I can tell you how cool it is, yet how quickly it radiates my heat back to me. I can tell you a hundred tiny details if I try, all because I feel it and I believe it.

The solstice sun. I feel it and I believe it. I don't need to prove it or describe it or even understand it. I simply need to feel its warmth through the cold glass and let my being radiate that warmth back to everyone I meet. That is real enough for me.

Love is not consolation. It is light.

Friedrich Nietzsche

Southern Gothic

2010-06-14T07:44:00.007-05:00

There are sounds that move me. Instantly put me in a calm place, an open place; a place that is home. The laughter of my children, the sound of a loved one's voice, the deafening rumble and ear splitting wail of the dozens of trains moving through my town each day, to name a few. On occasion I have the good fortune of being right at the tracks as they pass and let me say that each and every time that has happened, the engineers always wave. That makes me believe in people. They fly by at forty miles per hour, sometimes more, through hundreds of the small rural towns like mine and with one gesture, one taken for granted gesture, they say, "Hey! I see you there! And just in case I don't see you next time, fare thee well." We should all be so aware of the world around us, no matter how small or how vast. We are all connected.

Photo Grunt featured another of my photos! Thank you yet again! I have posted a new album on Picasa, a Sunday Stroll through my town. Yesterday was Tennessee Williams hot; 95 degrees and as humid as a wet blanket, but there was relief to be found in the cool green waters of the creek, the dense shady woods, and the inviting front porches. Ah, yes, and the breeze from the passing trains.

For the Birds

2010-06-06T23:09:00.003-05:00

Early this spring I discovered a visitor in my backyard. A pigeon, brightly plumed, who followed me around like a lost puppy as I filled the feeders. He decided to stay on as a regular. Lucky for him the cardinals are finicky diners and toss down three perfectly good seeds for every one they deign to eat. He was friendly and even though he was four times larger than the other regulars, everyone seemed to like him and the congregation went about their days happily singing and snacking. But then a curious thing happened. On Friday, during a particularly trying moment, I looked out the window to the sky, as is my habit, and there was my pigeon on the fence with another pigeon at his side. A white pigeon with black stripes. No fooling. They have returned together each morning and afternoon since.

White pigeons are a result of a recessive gene anomaly that breeders force...similar to the mad science of puggles and ruffled tulips. White doves are typically sacrificed or, in less bloody terms, released during rites of passage ceremonies. The context of events defines the symbolism of white birds, but most commonly, they represent love, the soul, peace, forgiveness, and deliverance. But what to make of a white pigeon with black stripes? The dark and the light, the known and the hidden, the right and the wrong, all on the back of one bird; the entire weight of the world held up by a feather.

Wild Geese

by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Thirteen Moons

2010-05-28T17:03:00.002-05:00

Last night the moon was gold. It is known as the Full Flower Moon. Did you see it? It has been thirteen moons since I shared my love of them, remember? I quoted Rilke in that post; how I love to read Rilke. I thought of him earlier in the evening at a party while watching my children splash and play with friends in the pool. The night was warm but not uncomfortable and the company was full of laughter and good cheer. The cicadas sent out their last shrill chirps of the night as twilight stole the heat from dried sap branches of towering pine and elm. A child asked what the noise was. They all stopped eating their chocolate cake and turned wet heads and pale shivering shoulders to the trees and listened.

"A shrieking bird," the know it all exclaimed. They all nodded; satisfied she always has the answer. But then a smaller voice spoke up, the smallest in the group, and it protested.

My son said, "No, it is a cicada and he is singing a love song."

"Ugh! That's a terrible song!"

"Not if you're a girl cicada."

I hope your summer is full of laughter, friends, and terrible love songs.

Everything is blooming most recklessly;

if it were voices instead of colors,

there would be an unbelievable shrieking

into the heart of the night.

Rainer Marie Rilke

Discovery and Reflection

2010-05-23T08:04:00.006-05:00

It all began with a discovery; a moment of, "Look! See what I found? A friend to keep for my own." And we delighted in the discovery, in the tickling sensations and tiny tidal movements that to small uncalloused hands feel like hope and promise. But we also had to learn that some creatures are not meant to be ours, no matter how much we want them to be. We had to learn to let go. We had to learn the most contradictory of terms in one act; reason and faith.

"The caterpillar will transform into a butterfly," observes the astute six year old.

"But I don't want it to be a transformer," argued the four year old, "it's not a robot! You are wrong!"

During the escalating argument between reason and faith the caterpillar was forgotten. The dramatic gestures and shaking fists of certainty forced us back to the point of discovery; the poor thing held on as long as it could through the storm it had unwittingly caused, but lost its grip. The caterpillar, the source of such heights of wonder and passion, began to free fall towards the pavement. I caught it with inches to spare and we all let out a gasp. The same gasp we all let out when we discovered the bug.

While my children cheered that I saved the caterpillar, they also realized that nothing had changed yet everything had changed. The caterpillar was still destined to be reborn and we were still left to deal with struggling to understand how that could be and how we could accept such a seeming impossibility with the tools, reason and faith, that caused us to lose sight of what mattered in the first place.

Einstein said the process of scientific discovery is, in effect, a continual flight from wonder. Yes, I agree, and that process journeys us in perpetual circles. If we are not too dizzy we can reflect on the situation. When we keep our hearts open and our minds free, sometimes when we are lucky, we see ourselves reflected back in the eyes of the discovery. And the wonder begins anew.

Works In Progress

2010-05-13T09:22:00.006-05:00

I meant to post this a few days ago but life, well, you know how that goes. We are deep into soccer play-offs, end of year programs, last minute reminders, and little calendar squares that are too small to fit in each day's notes. Plus everything seems to be shifting a bit, like suddenly the universe has begun to list to one side sending us all scrambling to make sense of things. Even my knitting is being affected. It waits patiently for me to come around again; a woolly little Sancho Panza bearing my flag as I tilt at yet another windmill in my path. Ah! But do not worry, unlike Quixote, I have hope. The projects I have begun will eventually be the complete and in them I will find great comfort. I'll just have to wait until the heat passes. Summer? On behalf of all the southern knitters out there, please be short. Thanks.

Three Truths of Four

2010-05-09T06:39:00.001-05:00

1) When you are four, the most prized independent milestone is being allowed to make your own snack. Insist you can do it "all by myself".

2) Joy is vigorously playing in nothing but socks in the backyard for at least a quarter hour before your mother discovers your underpants hanging on the doorknob and freaks out. She demands you put on your manties which seriously infringes on your belief in personal freedom.

3) Comment loudly (over the rude shushing noises all the adults are suddenly making) about how unbelievably bald/fat/old your neighbor is while he weeds his lawn ten feet away. You're supposed to be observant, right? I mean, you have spent four years answering questions like "what does a cow say?" to applause and accolades. Why censor your brilliance now?

Happy Mother's Day!

Median to Deep Thoughts

2010-05-04T09:38:00.001-05:00

There exists in each of us a capacity, a cistern deep and dormant, where the excesses are stored. The droplets of doubt, the rivers of resistance, the floods of unspoken truths, ebb and flow in silent tides here. This is the place we go only when we have to; when we search for an answer no other can give even if they are why we ask. The answers are there within us, we all know this, but the questions are what interest me now.

Why is it I prefer black and white photos yet rarely create them myself? Why is it the color turquoise makes me sad and joyful simultaneously? Why do I dream so vividly I wake up and can't go back to sleep for hours? Why do the strawberries in the stores look like they've been mugged and left for dead this season? Why am I surprised each May by the inane amount of special activities to celebrate the end of the school year? And, most importantly, why can't I find a sundress that doesn't make me look like I cut three holes in an old pillow case and called it a day?

While I ponder these deep thoughts, why don't you go check on what the uber-cute Jenny has made for her spring/summer Wikstenmade line. More power to the female indie designers (and she knits, too!).

All You Need Is Love (or a big box of yarn)

2010-04-27T11:44:00.008-05:00

Who is now singing do-do-do-do-doo? You're welcome for that. You could do worse than having John and Paul stuck in your head.

But you know what is better than the blokes singing about love? Receiving a surprise box full of it! The Lady was on the same wavelength with me apparently and packaged up a dozen or more skeins of sock yarn, decorated it with Chagall, Toulouse-Lautrec, and shiny shamrock stickers and sent it to me before I even posted about my shameful lack of wool. Karma? Cosmic connections? Knitterly intuition? You make me a believer Larkin!

Thank you, my generous and caring friend. Your gift moves me more than you know and you're right, the purple does call my name.

Shop Update

2010-04-25T15:13:00.010-05:00

For those who have been sending me emails wondering if I've dropped off the planet and if I will ever list new photos...my shop has a few new ones as of today. Thanks for checking up on me virtual friends, you guys rock!

ETA: Hey! Look what happens when I update... PhotoGrunt featured me. Check out his awesome talent and eye candy collections. Thanks, Steve!

And...(!)... I've been featured on this Etsy treasury...Go, clickety click for me, and maybe I'll make the front page.

One More Time... With Intention

2010-04-23T10:07:00.009-05:00

Duck

Knitting. I haven't been knitting. The tea leaves cardigan sat untouched in a grey lump for three weeks. Two days ago I couldn't handle the pathetic look of it and tucked the whole, needles and all, into my closet for fall. Hopefully. Maybe. We'll see. While in the closet I checked out my sock yarn. OK, there are a few of you that need to sit down before you read the next line...go ahead, I'll wait.

Duck

I only have three hanks of sock yarn. Three. Black, orange, and auburn. I know! Unbelievable, right? It is disconcerting not to be drowning in sock yarn. My hands are shaky. I need to replenish my stash. I've started a new pair and was thinking while casting on about the number of stitches it takes to complete my socks. My estimate, based on the stitches per inch, per row, and inches total to knit brings the count to around 30,000. Each of those thirty thousand stitches will be knit with intention... a woolly zen path if you will. What do I intend? Clarity, Calm, and Confidence.

Goose

What's your current favorite sock yarn?

Reminders

2010-04-12T14:35:00.009-05:00

The smell of funnel cakes makes me want to vomit. Despite this enduring trait, I volunteered for the elementary school carnival. By the time my shift rolled around, there wasn't much business. At 5pm on a Saturday there were a few hundred cotton candy laced children, hordes of dazed and somewhat pained looking adults, and my favorite social group to observe, the roving gangs of teenagers. I love how they lean on things, all sharp elbows and skinny black jeans, as if the weight of their own import is simply too much bear upright. I took pictures of them up close like Nat'l Geographic. And they didn't even notice. I used to be unaffected and cool like that...twenty plus years ago. Dude? I saw the band on your new 'vintage' t-shirt live when they still toured in a bondo colored VW van.
Okay, so this child? Unfortunately, he's not mine. But for about fifteen delightful minutes, he entertained me. He was attempting the paddle ball for the first time and the pure joy on his face reminded me the new shouldn't be feared, the old shouldn't be forgotten, and the in-between should be lived to the fullest, until the import of your own happiness is simply too much to bear upright.

The Less I Know

2010-03-31T07:39:00.006-05:00

3:30

When you get something you've wanted for a very long time does it lose the mystique? Or does it make you feel as if you had cheated yourself previously without even realizing it? When awareness does come, do you feel like you see everything differently, even something as simple as the sunlight in your kitchen? Or the different colors in your own eyes? Or the way your children smile sincerely after they laugh; unguarded and true?

I draw with words, scribble lines with language, smudge and blur meanings with adjectives, the secret inspirations hidden beside semicolons; the words after them are always the most honest. Now, with new camera in hand, I realize the more I receive the less I know. The stories in me are more than words; they are the integral parts of me. The photos I am learning to create are more than captured moments; they are my life broken down into readable files. This playing at focus and light and patience, has set me on a journey I hadn't been aware of before; I'll bring you with me wherever I go to see whatever I see. Last year I wrote in this space about change. This year year let's write of discovery.

6:19

A photograph is a secret about a secret.
The more it tells you the less you know.
Diane Arbus

Sunshine

2010-03-24T07:56:00.006-05:00

Spring has arrived and we are soaking up the sun while we can before April brings rain and the threat of tornadic weather. I really despise the word tornadic. I doubt it is even a real word. A weatherman in St. Louis used to say it and things like, "good times". I am convinced he never wore pants behind the anchor desk.

Anyway, this girl, my hot weather baby, my golden-tressed princess, she is my sunshine. I remember my OB looking at her and shaking his head while commenting his wife would spend everything to have hair this color. I wonder if it will stay this color as she grows up. I wonder many things about my children's future selves. Will they be happy? I hope so. There are so many variables, ten thousand things that have to go right in a person's life to outweigh the ten thousand that weren't quite right. My wish is I am able to be a part of many of those joys and to be a comfort through many of those sorrows.

Note to my future self: Remember these days? These were the days you realized your heart had more rooms in it than you ever imagined. Promise me they are still occupied and the doors have never been locked. Tell me about your ten thousand joys.

High Point

2010-03-19T07:26:00.005-05:00

This is one of the high points of my foothill, the distant ridge is the next city over. When I stand here I can see clearly for miles in every direction, even as far as the peaks of Red Mountain thirty miles away. This is my thinking spot, covered in waist-high dry grass this time of year, reminiscent of an Andrew Wyeth painting. I love how even at such heights, the perspective is flat, as if I could simply step from my ridge to the next, the immeasurable chasm in between only a sketched line in the sky like a crack in the pavement.

Once the realization is accepted that even between the closest human beings infinite distances continue, a wonderful living side by side can grow, if they succeed in loving the distance between them which makes it possible for each to see the other whole against the sky. Rilke

The Mysterious Lamp Post

2010-03-15T10:53:00.009-05:00

My father pulled in the drive with a surprise- my old armoire. My childhood bedroom was in the attic, a heavily dormered room with no closets that was freezing in the winter and an inferno in summer. Like so many things remembered, I would have sworn the wardrobe was larger; in my memory, it loomed and beckoned. I spent many hours tucked inside hidden amongst my clothes and dolls dreaming of the could be's and the what if's and the when I grow up's.

I couldn't help but venture back in, not expecting to find anything other than dust, but some spaces never lose their magic. Though I had to duck my head this time, I found what I was looking for; the mysterious lamp post in the middle of a dark and snowy wood. I drew a picture of it for you, in case you are too old and cynical to see such things for themselves anymore.

Not In My Bag

2010-03-10T07:24:00.005-06:00

To my best travel companion,

Happy Birthday, Michael, and bon voyage. I wish I could have come with you. I will stand on the top of the ruins waiting for your return. Travel well, brother.
Yours,
Heather

And that's the wonderful thing about family travel: it provides you with experiences that will remain locked forever in the scar tissue of your mind. -Dave Barry

Restless Scissors

2010-03-07T08:35:00.001-06:00

In our house, funny things happen. Fairy doors magically appear on bedroom walls in the middle of the night with pennies and pastels left on the doorsteps for a special little girl. And sometimes, when all is hushed and sleeping, I can hear the scissors and the paper turning restlessly in their cabinet, wondering if we've forgotten them. So during a sick day when my daughter asks "can we use the camera?" Of course I say yes.

After many deliberations and arguments and freaking out at a little brother who wanted to stick his hand in every shot, and tears all around, we accomplished her vision. And in the end, she was happy and so was I and little brother was secretly happy too because he deemed it "stupid", which is his highest compliment for an idea not his own. Oh, and the scissors and paper? They were happy too and slept soundly all the night through.

Holy Selbuvotter!

2010-03-06T08:11:00.007-06:00

Confession:

I have a guilty pleasure. Runway fashion. Ever since I was in middle school and flipped through my first Elle, which then was chock full of glamazon supermodels with neon eye shadow and fierce attitudes, I've kept a (secret) eye on what the designers send down the runway each season. Now, I can hear Nicole laughing at me as I type this; she refers to my sense of style as my 'uniform' because when I fall in love with a garment or look, I wear it until it falls apart. Security clothes, I guess.

So, despite my personal failure to be currently trendy, I do appreciate the outrageous art/fashion the seasons bring. Imagine my delight when I saw what Dolce & Gabbana have up their (knitted) sleeves for Winter 2011... selbu galore, sheer fabric with traditional Nordic prints, and (gasp!) my uber-crush, Travis. He had me at hello with this Chanel commercial last year (my god, those lips...). My husband just cringed, I can sense it.

I want to knit the cowl he's wearing and possibly the red dress too, but first, I should finish the three projects I've got on the needles.

What's your secret indulgence?

The World is Quiet Here

2010-03-05T10:59:00.005-06:00

...shhh. Both my babies are home sick. Plans out the window, blankets piled on, and a hardwood floor that is mocking me with its dirtiness. Why is it a sick day for a child means a work day turned to a play day, but exactly the opposite is true for a parent?

I had planned to make magnusmog and Frances happy with another Henry Rollins quote today, and even though my son's middle name is Henry, I don't think it would fit the mood here. So, while I kiss his tiny knuckles and smooth down my daughter's hair until this feeling bad has left them, I'll leave you with this:

“Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind.

"Pooh," he whispered.
"Yes, Piglet?"
"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw,

"I just wanted to be sure of you."”

Faded and Rusted

2010-02-28T17:56:00.002-06:00

tin roof, faded

Dear Spring,
Where the heck are you? I'm cold and my wandering ways are giving me fits. The family has taken to calling the ubiquitous grey scarf knotted at my neck, even while in my pajamas, my wubby. I want to explore; find the waterfalls, an old coal mine, and half buried track that leads to nowhere and everywhere. I want to take pictures of anything other than the inside of my house. I want out. Spring, you are letting me down. Why can't you start now instead of almost three weeks from now? Call me. I'm sure we can work something out.
Love,
H.

The Lady has been inspired and I'm passing along her request. She is going to do an art project with the bits and pieces of love ephemera we send to her (photos, letters, stories, postcards, etc.). If you are interested in participating, read more here.

I would send in the feelings Patrick's music evokes in me but I wouldn't know how to mail them...sigh...

tin roof, rusted

Love! Hate!

2010-02-24T13:25:00.002-06:00

'Frida' torquoise necklace & 'Fiesta' earrings

from polishedtwo.etsy.com = true love

Ok, I'm not sure if I found this group through Eireann or not, but check the collection of amazing photographs at The Archival Moon and Waiting flickr group. Absolutely haunting and lovely and ugly and horrifying and simply beautiful. Which reminds me of another thing Eireann has posted lately: Derrida. Oh my love/hate relationship with Derrida! I know, I know. Another French philosophe, really, Heather? Ah oui. Here we go...

Derrida makes no damn sense. I mean this when I say, none, no sense at all. I hate him. Unless, I stay away from his obscure theories (deconstruction- really, only nihilistic teenagers get this, right?) and instead read his ideas on, well, everything else, then I love him again. Among the great philosophers, he even tops Nietzsche on my 'boys I should know better than to love' list. I just can't help myself when I read things like this:

"But precisely, when my gaze meets yours, I see both your gaze and your eyes, love in fascination--and your eyes are not only seeing but also visible. And since they are precisely visible (things or objects in the world), I could precisely touch them, with my finger, lips, or even eyes, lashes and lids, by approaching you-if I dared come near to you in this way, if I one day dared." On Touching

I know, right? There is no way I can pretend not to understand this sentiment. Who hasn't felt that way before: the intensity, the burning, the absolute compulsion to reach out and touch the one who has no idea the power they have over you. I began this month by writing about the many forms of love and how each offers us a new point of view and should be respected. So, Jaques, I love you and I hate you and I wouldn't have it any other way, ma petite chou.

As a random but oddly fitting aside, because I am listening to my ipod as I type this, the sound of the pick on the strings in this song tickles the back of my neck. Don't you love that shivery feeling?

Ninebark Vest

2010-02-20T19:57:00.012-06:00

Pattern: Ninebark Cowl, Knitscene Winter/Spring 2010
Yarn: Knit Picks City Tweed HW 'toad'
Needles: US# 5 & 7 circulars

This is what happens when you lose your perfect light while making SpongeBob shaped macaroni; you end up standing in your bathtub after dark for a photo. The Ninebark Cowl: a pattern no one will knit the way it was written. I didn't bother with the attached cowl because I thought it limiting. I added a row of 2x2 ribbing at the neckline instead. The fit is nice, but I shouldn't have added the increases at the hip, which gave me a bit more ease there than I needed, although I think an adventurous knitter could replace the bottom ribbing with a peplum and embody the Coco Chanel 1940's shapely aesthetic before rigid boning and girdles prevailed again in the 50's.

Knit while reading the Kreutzer Sonata by Tolstoy and listening to Elizabeth Klett's fantastic recording of The Awakening by Kate Chopin. Two affecting novellas I highly recommend unless you are considering a engagement of marriage- then I say read at your own risk!

Contrast

2010-02-17T07:39:00.015-06:00

outside

inside

Thank you for the birthday wishes! Winter gifted me snow (much to my surprise, this type of accumulation is very unusual here). The black cap chickadees tucked into their nest in my crepe myrtle and were at the feeder safe and sound the next morning. I snuggled inside, enjoying the tulips my son picked out for me.

My life is a mess of contrasts right now and I am at a loss for words to describe how I am feeling. The only descriptive I can come up with is longing. I have a strong sense of longing: not really melancholy because I am happy with so many things, but not really contentment either. Simple longing; I wish I knew what for. Cabin fever of the soul, I suspect.

This photo from the Sartorialist caught my eye. The contrasts are palpable; the almost burka-like quality of the woman's monochromatic outfit contrasting against the snowfall is compelling enough, but as you scroll down to the clandestine red on the soles of her shoes the whole affect shifts from practical to provocative. I wonder what it is like to be her. I'll bet she has longing too. For pants.

This Day

2010-02-14T00:02:00.002-06:00

"Would you tell me, please, which way I
ought to go from here?"

"That depends a good deal on where you want to get to," said the Cat.

"I don't much care where--" said Alice.

"Then it doesn't matter which way you go," said the Cat.

"--so long as I get SOMEWHERE," Alice added as an explanation.

"Oh, you're sure to do that," said the Cat, "if you only walk
long enough."

Mama Said Knock You Out

2010-01-25T11:41:00.001-06:00

Pattern: tiny shoes by Ysolda Teague
Yarn: Pigeonroof Studios sock leftovers
Needles: US# 3 DPN

I prevailed. The booties did not defeat me. There is nothing wrong with this pattern, my frustration was all user error- Ysolda says potato and I say mash-tatoes with heaps of cream and scads of butter- the pattern was never to blame. I took a deep breath, gathered my courage, and knit them as made sense to me (notes on ravelry). Win. Epic win.

The euphoria I feel over having soundly defeated my knitting doubt is indescribable, so I'll try to give you some visuals:
*if I was a football player I'd be doing a back flip in the end zone.
*if I was a soccer player, I'd be tearing off my shirt and running in circles.
*if I was a hockey player, I'd be checking my opponent into the boards so hard it would knock his nose straight.
*if I was a hurler, I'd be striking so fast the ladies would swoon over me and my wee shorts.

"It's not the size of the dog in the fight,

it's the size of the fight in the dog."

Mark Twain

Mixed Greens

2010-01-23T12:11:00.004-06:00

Pattern: my basic sock formula
Yarn: Pigeonroof Studios
Needles: US #2 DPN

These were born from this, which was born from the Lady Knits shipping the tangled mess to me in exasperation. A year has passed since I untangled the skein and so many things are different in each of our lives, except the fact that absolutely nothing beats wearing hand knit socks on a chilly tile floor. The colorway is a mix of greens with teal and gold bits, like salad. These make me happy. Very happy.

Want to know what doesn't make me happy? The epic fail I am experiencing with Ysolda's Tiny Shoe pattern. Seriously, I have knit sweaters, socks, lace, etc. etc. but these $#&*@! three inch booties are going to be the death of all of my hard earned knitterly zen. I have no idea why this seemingly simple pattern is not intuitive for me. I've tried following the directions to the letter and I can't figure out the whole weird number of stitches on which needle thing. Which does she consider needle 1? Maybe I am trying to make it too simple, like a sock, where the division of stitches is even or close enough and you have a clear heel and sides. Not here. Not for me. I'll try again later, but I fear the frustration will get the best of me. Maybe I'll just knit them like I think they should be knit and see what happens. If I do not succeed this will be known as the Epic Bootie Fail of 2010. Quelle horreur!

Silence, Exile, and Cunning

2010-01-15T07:41:00.006-06:00

I finally captured a silhouette of Wilhelm as the sun came up this morning. He stayed longer than usual, so still he seemed a figment of my imagination, until with a piercing cry he dove headlong into the forest. Before I could blink, he was upon the branch again, his prey in his great talons. One fell swoop*as Shakespeare would write, but Wilhelm's efficient nature instantly put in mind this passage from A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce:

“You have asked me what I would do and what I would not do. I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it call itself my home, my fatherland or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can, and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use . . . silence, exile, and cunning.”

* A large black cat slowly crossed my path on a curving back road yesterday and now I am quoting from the Scottish Play...I'll be tossing salt over my shoulder all day for this.

Turn A Square

2010-01-11T13:09:00.007-06:00

Pattern: Turn A Square by Jared Flood
Yarn: Berroco Ultra Alpaca Light 'aurelian' (stash)
Needles: US #4 circular/dpn's

The best way to get a focused picture of Little Man's new hat was to strap him in the car and hand him a pop tart. Fantastic hat pattern (which goes without saying since it is Mr. Flood after all). To create a child's size, I cast on and followed the pattern using a lighter weight yarn and knitting 4 inches before beginning the decreases. This is a bit too wide in the brim, but he'll grow into it. Especially if he keeps eating those pop tarts.

Post #250

2010-01-04T08:31:00.005-06:00

Well, we've all survived the holiday madness again. Glad to see you back on this side. According to popular culture, I should be buying plastic storage bins, eating clear broth soups with strange twig like vegetables floating in them, and resolving to not break my resolutions. You know me well enough by now to understand when I choose to do none of these things. I am reveling in routine again. For all of the posturing I do about change, the month of December usually serves to remind me there isn't much I'd change about my day to day life. Spiritual and philosophical change I embrace, but the boring routine? I need it. I'm a balloon type; without a tether like a reliable daily routine, I would drift off, my head in the clouds, never to be seen again.

My brother read my book, the short story that turned into 80,000 plus words, and he enjoyed it. I know his opinion might be biased, but after I got off the phone I felt so damn proud of myself for having written a story someone else found pleasure in, and more importantly, understood. He got the subtleties, the hidden jokes, the characters were real for him in almost the same way they are for me. Writing this is an accomplishment in itself, but I'd like to see how far I can go with the book. My goal is to get it as far as as I can down the publishing gauntlet. I know it may never actually be published, but that is really not my goal. My goal is to believe in myself enough to accomplish the baby steps: the tedium, the boring details, the slogging through. A new tether to a new aspect of my daily routine; the doubting less and doing more. Happy New Year- I have a feeling it will be an excellent one.

The Longest Night, The Lemoniest Cake

2009-12-21T07:30:00.005-06:00

Here we are, solstice again. This year went very quickly for me. I enjoyed it and welcome winter with open arms, her frost underfoot, her chill silver light. Beautiful, really, when you open your eyes every so often and put an effort into seeing beyond the reddened tip of your own nose.

My favorite light during winter is the golden glow radiating from the windows of houses and shops at night. I feel a welcoming, as if each window is an invitation, a call for camaraderie. I'm taking my usual holiday blog break to spend time with my family and friends, to laugh and love in warm corners by frosted windows. If I see you pass by and peek in, I'll wave and invite you in.
Until next week, be well, be merry, eat cake.

Lemon Cake (pithy directions)
*Cream together 1 cup sweet butter and 2 cups sugar.
*Beat in 3 eggs, one at a time.
*Mix together 3 cups flour, 1 tsp. baking soda, 1/4 tsp salt.
*Incorporate alternately with 1 cup buttermilk into butter mixture (begin and end with flour).
*Add 3 Tablespoons of lemon juice and lemon zest. Bake @ 300 for 50-60 minutes until a toothpick comes out clean. (I use loaf pans and make 2 cakes with this recipe.)
*After cake completely cools, glaze with mix of 1/4 cup softened butter, 1.5 cups powdered (confectioner's) sugar and 3 T lemon juice.
*Let glaze thicken and set before wrapping or just eat it right away like you know you want to. Makes for an excellent breakfast.

The Point

2009-12-18T07:09:00.005-06:00

This was the point, two weeks ago, right before life became a complete blur. My husband worries I've lost my mind; I am so distracted. There are too many little details to remember. More to the point, too many little details I have to remember, but don't really care about. Holiday expectations, bah.

Yesterday, in the middle of the crazy, I bought a bag of lemons on a whim. Today I'll make lemon pound cakes because I can, not because I have to. Unobligative cake tastes best. That is one thing worth remembering.

Meret

2009-12-07T07:35:00.009-06:00

Pattern: Meret (Mystery Beret) by Wooly Wormhead

Wool: Knit Picks Merino Style hollyberry - stash

Needles: US # 7 circulars

Mystery. Who doesn't love a good mystery? The thrill, the anticipation, the cliff-hangers, the twists and turns, the set up, and finally, all of the loose ends tied neatly into place (insert rimshot here). I appreciate an exciting and well executed mystery almost as much as I love my Meret. This is one of those knit projects that you whip up on whim, actually wear out, and wait for the inevitable comment from some stranger asking where you purchased your hat. And then, instead of sheepishly admitting you made it by hand (which often times translates to "Gee, now you know why it looks odd" ), you hold your head high and declare (loudly to draw an admiring throng) "I made this!" and strut off with a springy step and a kick ass sense of chapeau style.

Boring Process Details:

Knit to pattern for size M: read ahead for start row of lace chart. Used the roll/rib combo for the band, added one extra lace repeat for the slouchy effect, blocked wet flat, did a happy dance.

The Sentimentality of Here, There

2009-11-30T07:27:00.010-06:00

I am often accused of not being sentimental, or more to the point, once I am "done" with a thing (object,person, circumstance) I am done with it completely. I do have the ability to walk away, sometimes far forevers away, from a thing I no longer need or find fulfilling. Whenever I am so accused I want to argue this simply isn't true but I can't. It is true. My nostalgia is carried within me, not in a photo or a trinket or a box of receipts. When I am struck by a wave of sentimentality, the pining comes from deep inside and it may not always produce tears, but it shifts me, moves me, affects my whole being. One such place that I will forever carry with me is the Missouri Botanical Gardens. I visited the grounds again during Thanksgiving holiday and before I even stepped out into the first courtyard, I felt a lightening, as if a corset of tension had been unlaced; I could breathe again.

This place has seen me single, engaged, married, a wife, twice pregnant, a mother, one day old, maybe ill, always dying. I have brought friends and loved ones to experience her seasons. I have mourned the loss of several of those dearest here at the lake's edge. There is no blame here, there is light. There is no vacuous chatter here, there is wind in trees. There is no anger here, there is beauty. There is no entrenchment here, there is constant change. There is no denial here, there is acceptance. These gardens look different every time I visit, but her loving embrace and tender kisses on the eyelids of my soul, bring me a peace and a sense of connectedness I rarely find elsewhere.

The Garden and her long light reminds me to live, to embrace change, because everything must change, no static thing will survive the hard frosts, the droughts, the floods, or the harvests. People forget, they want to cling sentimentally to what they once had or dreamed of having, and completely forget they are not dead; they can keep living, nurture their dormant roots and bloom once more. It is an effort filled choice each has to make for themselves, no other can give you what you need to be whole. And so, I cannot deny I am not one for mawkishness and tradition for the sake of it, but instead of unsuccessfully contriving a sense of nostalgia, I attempt to live so I find new threads of it everywhere I go. Threads that make the seams of myself hold fast, no matter what season I may face next.

Gypsy Gold

2009-11-18T16:39:00.004-06:00

My quest to capture the last golden turnings of the season was successful. As an unexpected bonus, I made a new friend.

I had forgotten how much I like horses and how much they like me.

Maybe it's my disposition that attracts them. Or maybe I smell like a root vegetable.

He was so handsome my inner Southerner broke free and I declared him "right purty." He didn't seem to mind.

'Gypsy gold does not chink or glitter.

It gleams in the sun and neighs in the dark.'

Claddagh Gypsy saying

Autumnal Rains

2009-11-12T07:17:00.005-06:00

Received record rains a couple days ago which felled the leaves outside my window. A friend called and invited me to hike the mountain on Friday. We are both afraid to miss it, this last quiet release, the halcyon sigh of Nature donning winter.

The Physics of Falling Leaves

2009-11-01T17:58:00.005-06:00

Roman Payne wrote the title of this post, he was commenting on the suddenness of death, but some combinations of words are poems which deserve to be plucked from paragraphs and endlessly applied to listening ears.

The leaves are falling slowly here, reluctantly, dancing on the sun warmed air, slipping out of our grasp at the very last second when we exclaim Ah!, our traitorous breath launching the burnished treasures skyward again.

My need to be still, quiet, and reflective is strong now, but only because these desires are the opposite of what the fractious energies of the season promise. Life only gets busier, louder, spread out across town and country, often expecting me to be in two places at once; everyone needs something from me. In keeping with my contrary nature my response to busy weeks is to want to hide even if it has to be in plain sight. I want to pull in and float along, observing the revelry, but not fully participating. This loner behavior serves in letting me see the world around me but isn't fulfilling in a way I want right now. Maybe this year I'll participate with my whole self and allow the world to know me. Hopefully I won't be tempted to fly away on the first breath of 'Ah! There you are; now we have you!' like a leaf reluctant to end its independent adventure.

Posthumously Yours

2009-10-31T00:00:00.001-05:00

A house is never still in darkness to those who listen intently; there is a whispering in distant chambers, an unearthly hand presses the snib of the window, the latch rises. Ghosts were created when the first man awoke in the night.

J.M. Barrie

A Coyote, A Nut, and a Tire Iron Walked Into a Bar...

2009-10-29T10:03:00.003-05:00

The colors in the creek are the colors of my son's eyes. Green and gold and rust that in low light look brown and in sunshine look like Donegal moss tweed. We went exploring, one of our favorite autumnal activities, and the three of us each found something exciting to share. My son, our protector, outfitted with a holstered yellow squirt gun in case we disturbed any copperheads, found a millipede the size of his forearm. My daughter, our captain, steered us in the right direction, discovering a new piece of playground equipment deemed suitable for vigorous play after a thorough inspection. And I, the navigator, wandered off to daydream by the gritty bank, leaving the other two up to their own devices. Hey, I'm never voted the captain for a reason. I found something too.

On the eastern exposure of the mossy tree in this photo is a hollow, carved out by water under a gnarled canopy of roots. I slid a few feet down the bank to check it out and to my surprise there was a woman tucked halfway in there, pale and shivering. Her wet hair braided with the roots. I couldn't tell where she began and the tree ended. I instantly recognized her.

"Catherine?" Her pained eyes fluttered in acknowledgement. "Why are you under these roots and not back home in the tidy short story I just finished writing about you?"

"You tell me," she croaked, her voice as sandy as the creek side,"I just woke up here and I think I'm dying, but I don't know why."

"Oh," I offered impotently. She rolled her washed out eyes at me. I pondered the situation for a moment and added, "Well, I guess I'll have to write you into and out of this."

"Thanks, Heather," she whispered, "and don't forget the coyotes, Uncle Nut, or the tire iron, okay?" She hacked for a moment then scrunched her gaunt face and spat blood and half an opalescent shell by my foot. I grimaced and nodded, climbing back up the slippery slope.

Following my Captain and Guard to the falls, I gave the scene some thought and as other families trickled into the park after church, I snapped this pic of the kids. Why don't we focus on the cuteness of these two and not the hapless navigator whose imagination at times is crazy-making.

Dreams in a Language Not My Own

2009-10-21T13:16:00.018-05:00

On ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur.

L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux.

Saint-Exupéry

While my friend Nicole reads my first draft, I am writing short stories. Some real, most imagined, one a combination of the two. I find that of all my passions, and my regular readers know I have more than a few, writing makes me feel most fulfilled. Even when I reread the hours worth of words I've sacrificed sleep to create, only to delete them all, I am never disappointed in myself for having done so. Inspiration rarely alludes me, especially when crafting a short story. I tend to collect them in my mind and recall them later like half remembered conversations with old friends. I simply have to fill in the details.

Sometimes a story finds me, inadvertently and unexpectedly, in a gesture as simple as a handshake or a stranger's glance. In these instances I practically fall over myself and anyone in the way to get home and write the story I've created around them. The strands of thought seem to appear from nowhere, yet they feel as if they have always been a part of me, and like the cobwebs I can't reach on my foyer chandelier, they will remain. Glittering in the shifting light of day, these fragile connections remind me to look always within my heart for that which is invisible to my eyes.

On a completely different note, I have dreamt, vividly, in French for the past few nights. Problem is, I don't speak French (other than a few phrases). Apparently I understand it in my dreams though. How random is that? Maybe I need to stop perusing so many Canadian knitting blogs before bed. My subconscious self is exponentially more interesting than my waking self and that, my friends, is just sad. I wonder what Foucault would have to say about this phenomenon? I'm going to sleep on that thought and I'll give you his theory in the morning.

Hermione's Everyday Socks

2009-10-12T07:37:00.006-05:00

Pattern: Hermione's Everyday Socks (rav) by Erica Lueder

Wool: Knit Picks Stroll in burgundy

Needles: US# 1 dpn's, 7", aluminum, with a Phoenix Feather core

One of my favorite events surrounding Hermione Granger, cleverest witch of her age, in the Harry Potter series, was the tongue-tied, hapless attentions she received from Viktor Krum, the surly Bulgarian Quidditch champion. (That was a comma-splosion sentence, sorry.) Anyway, Viktor could never pronounce her name no matter how hard he tried, usually addressing her as Hermy-own-ninny or something close. I felt for the man. I have the same problem when introduced to people who speak a language other than English and children. "Edda" is usually what I answer to in these situations.

No matter, a name is just a name and sometimes, despite best intentions, you can't seem to get a thing to come out right, or out at all. So has it been with these socks. Life blocked my every intention of finishing them in my usual two week window. I think I cast on for these three months ago. Alas, my friends, they are finally finished, and all without the help of a time turner or charm. Now who's the cleverest witch?

Awesome x Three

2009-10-08T13:44:00.009-05:00

Kate Perry, Marketing Assistant for Knit Picks, has featured two of my knit projects using City Tweed in her blog post here. Thanks Kate! All of the projects she features can be found on Ravelry by clicking on the photostream. It gives me a warm feeling to be included with so many talented knitters.

The second bit of awesome I'm soaking up this week is an album by The Avett Brothers. I especially love the song Head Full of Doubt/ Road Full of Promise. I wish I had written it. Let's pretend it was written for me, ok?

Last bit of awesome is this exchange between my 4 year old and I while waiting at the bus stop yesterday:

him: "What's that smell?"

me: "I don't know. It is unusual. What do you think it smells like?"

him: "Like tea... and teenagers."

Poetic in a delightfully charming and odd way, don't you think?

The Morning of the Turn

2009-09-30T07:12:00.004-05:00

Walking to the bus stop this morning I breathed it in, the turn of the season, each chill lung full of air an awakening. This is the true beginning to my year; the autumnal stripping off the lethargy and sloth of humid days. I am invigorated and inspired by the coming cold, the burning colors, the instinct to wrap oneself inward under layers of early darkness. When the world herself goes stumbling towards a long nap, I awake, drowsy from my summer stupor. This is my season.

Jacob and Wilhelm, the brother hawks, watched me from their usual perch in the bare tree top across from my house. I named them this year after the Brothers Grimm. I wonder if that means we are connected in some way since I've named them. They would surely scoff if they could and remind me we are all connected regardless of words. I was grateful to see them hulking there, silhouetted against the indigo line between night and dawn.

Now is the time for cassoulets and thin sweaters. Knitting and Romantic classics. Perhaps a Gothic horror. Maybe Jane Eyre? Long rambles in the piney woods, a glass of wine before bed, school parties. And curling in, looking in, summing up the year's bounties and debts. This is my harvest.

Seven is an Odd Number

2009-09-21T06:55:00.003-05:00

I've received an incredibly thoughtful award for (k)creative blogging from the always inspiring and entertaining Left-Handed Housewife. Thank you again, Frances, I've taken your description of me to heart. Honestly, I don't usually blog these awards out of sheer laziness, but when I realized the majority of you are going to jump ship over the fact I haven't finished the socks yet, I thought I'd play along. Accepting this award means I am beholden to share seven facts about myself, which is difficult because people I know read this and I can't get away with telling you I am a secret agent working on an international cashmere goat poaching case. Good thing since that kind of sharing would surely upset Ms. Thin Mint, my super secret super spy boss.
The fine print: (which I am only posting for informational purposes and only following four steps. I'm a rebel, Dottie.)

1.Thank the person who nominated you.
2.Copy the logo to your blog (or at least into the acceptance post...).
3.Link to the person who nominated you.
4.List 7 thing about yourself people may find interesting.
5.Make your own 7 Nominations.
6.Post links to those 7.
7.Leave them all a comment to let them know you nominated them.

Get Ready.

1) I never graduated college. I took a couple of years worth of core classes, couldn't bear the boredom and hated every minute of it. I wimped out and have never looked back.The final straw in my school career was when my philosophy 101 professor accused me of cheating because "no one had ever aced his tests before". The exams were multiple choice. What a prat.

2) I tend to be overly honest, sticking my foot in my mouth more often than not, but I have come to realize people turn to me when they need help because they trust my sincerity.

3) I wish I could speak Italian. I love the poetry of it. I completed four years of French and can only curse and ask the time fluently. I guess that means I could navigate a French train station pretty well.

4) When I lived in downtown Atlanta, a drunk homeless man ran into the road and fell against the side of my moving car. He landed on his butt and then stumbled away but I was too scared to get out and help him. The witnesses just kept walking. The whole scene still haunts me.

5) I am the soccer equivalent of Bobby Knight. I actually balled my hands into fists at my son's game and shocked myself by telling him to "Just kick her and get the ball !" I should be banned from spectating for the rest of the season. It is a league of four year olds by the way.

6) I love randomly complimenting people. It surprises them and makes them think which is always a good thing.

7) I have a restless soul. I question, analyze, seek knowledge, teach myself something new every day, and still I dream of wandering the world to figure it all out. The reality is I live a small life and love it, so this restlessness pools in my imagination, and I burst at the seams with creativity because of it.

Thanks for sticking around; you all mean the world to me. Consider yourself nominated.

It's the Wonder of You

2009-09-14T17:15:00.004-05:00

I know what you're thinking.

"She's going to write about change again. Always with the change, this one. Transition this, acceptance that. Yada yada yada."

Not today. Today I'm wondering what happens after the change? What do you do then, if it's what you waited for or never saw coming, where do go from the new first step? I guess the answer to that is different for everyone. For this butterfly, the answer was to hang out on my window for an hour and watch me. I watched him too, wondering what he saw to keep him riveted. Eventually he flew off and I stepped outside to peer into the window out of curiosity. I saw me, reflected, with the clouds behind my head.

Butterfly was watching himself float on the clouds, not seeing into my house at all. I sat there for a spell, doing the same, taking in my reflection framed by clouds. I think we both liked what we saw and took the time to appreciate the wonder of it. That, in itself, should be a first step everyday, don't you think?

Love Is So Short, Forgetting Is So Long*

2009-09-08T00:05:00.009-05:00

Cloudland Canyon, after rain, summer 2009

Tonight I Can Write
by Pablo Neruda

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

*maybe it is the glass of wine or the moon and Jupiter dancing outside the window now, but these simple words are calling my name and I'm not sure why. Just thought I'd share the moment.

Busy As A

2009-09-01T14:50:00.011-05:00

I am checking in because I received an email from my husband requesting I post. He even gave me topics. He must be bored. I, on the other hand, am anything but bored. Guess what I've got? Over 50, 000 words and counting in less than a month. Why can't NaNoWriMo be in August instead of November? It is quite possible 48000 of those words are total crap, but they are mine and I like 'em.

You know that squirmy feeling you get when you've worked really hard on creating something? When you pour all of your passion and heart into it, drowning in your own enthusiasm whenever you (not so casually) mention the project to friends (or complete strangers) who invariably give you the stink eye after ten minutes of your gushing? I've got that squirmy feeling- I think it is happiness*, but as I near the end of the first draft process, and prepare myself for someone to read this, I get another feeling altogether. I want to throw up.

I'm still knitting that second sock, it is mocking me from the dusty little corner I left it in. I fear it will start speaking to me when I walk by like the man eating plant in Little Shop of Horrors. I can hear it now, the merino begging,"knit me, Heather" as the kitchen lights dim and a chorus begins to sing duwop from the pantry. I need to finish that sock before it finishes me.

* I think there should be a happiness test, like a pregnancy test:

no line-depressed

one line-content

two lines- delirious

(They could sell them in two packs for the skeptics and the schizophrenics.)

Open Letter

2009-08-25T16:25:00.005-05:00

Before any of you start thinking this little blog space is all magical fairy doors and pumpkin patches, I'd like to step out of my usual habit of musing on a thing, good or bad, and squeezing every ounce of rambling metaphor I can out it. The following is an open letter that I need to get out of my system so I can face the next several months without shouting expletives so profane they cause the earth's axis to tilt ever so slightly sending innocent penguins hurtling into outer space.

Dear School,

I understand you have had funding cuts...again...and that you will be relying on donations and fundraisers to support your 17,000 pounds of photocopier paper to relay the daily messages about how your funding has been cut and you will be relying on donations and fundraisers to support... (see: Escher, M.C.)

I want this school to succeed in its mission to educate my daughter on the basics. I'll fill her in on all the really important stuff as we go, but I have to speak out concerning the latest fundraiser scheme we are being asked to participate in. Don't you think hiring a company to send home snazzy pamphlets with 3D glasses in them and scripts for the 5 to 8 year olds to beg for money per lap, then make them run on a 90 plus degree day until they drop faster than Icarus at the feet of their guilt ridden parents all of whom advocate rescuing greyhounds from mob bosses for exhibiting less cruelty? Calling it a "fun" run doesn't take the horror out of it. Fun shot, fun root canal, fun colonoscopy. Nope, still doesn't work. So do me a favor and stop manipulating my child's trust in adults, thanks.

And then, then, we find out you only get 10% of the donations. So this company, if it can be called that legitimately, keeps 90% of the money our families have coughed up. I am not good at math, I've been very upfront about that, but even I know the economics of this deal are a wee bit uneven.

I propose you send a nice email or letter for those families that don't have access, requesting a donation for specific reasons because people are more likely to let go of their money if they know exactly what their buying. Then, since you didn't hire a scamathon enticing my child with more plastic junk made by starving children somewhere, you, dear School, get to keep 100% of the monies raised. I know, it's awesome, right?! Thanks.

See you on the field,

Heather

ps- this also applies to all of the charities asking me to mail out letters to my neighbors. Sheesh.

You're Not Hopeless

2009-08-19T07:35:00.005-05:00

So, last night, I paced, literally paced, the floor trying to convince myself not to write the really painful scene between my characters. I kept thinking up increasingly ludicrous possibilities to spare them this confrontation, but life is confrontation, right? I mean we don't just all float around in bubbles of foamy bliss all day. I realized at some point, well into the night, that I was breaking my own heart for these imaginary folks. Is that normal? So I did what I do whenever I feel sad or frustrated or restless: I quoted all of my favorite lines from Lost in Translation and stopped when Bob says quietly, "You're not hopeless."

I seriously crush on that movie because I can relate to both Charlotte and Bob; her searching, artistic nature and his jaded, mid life crisis induced depression. I will finish these Hermione's Everyday Socks one day, but not this day. This day, I am going to post boring photos of my feet, accept the fact that I am now officially a soccer mom, and try to go to bed at a reasonable hour. Wish me luck.

Twining

2009-08-13T10:51:00.011-05:00

When you plant a dozen or so pumpkin seeds in your largest clay pot full of the fanciest soil the handsomest young man at the hardware store suggests, a curious thing happens. Every one of the many minutes a day I've stood wondering, watering, and wishing over that pot, have come to nothing. I have a pot full of fancy dirt, that has produced the scraggliest, palest, most awkward looking vines. They remind me of those angst ridden boys who flirted with me in high school. But the three seeds I happened to toss over by the wall where the grass never grows? You guessed it. Rampant. Healthy. Virile, even. The seeds I ignored have shown my high expectations and expensive dirt up. You never know the surprises that wait, hidden beneath your feet.

For all of the showy leaves and blossoms, the true magic lies in the twining tendrils. They twist and strive, reaching out for a connection; a hold on this life. Some find themselves wrapped around something pretty quickly, and they hold on tight, never giving the sturdiness of their anchor a thought. Many find, much later, the base is weak and the weight of the mature vine too much for one tendril to carry. Others get swept away, letting the growing vine carry them far from their roots. These travelers don't always have a chance to find a connection but they curl and grasp anyway because it is their nature to find the sticking place to support the vine. Even if they happen to find something far afield to grasp, they have stretched so far, these tendrils end up tangling in upon themselves. Either way, the season will change, the pumpkin will be harvested, the chill air will dry the vine, and those tendrils will be forced to let go.

Change is life. Whether you are a determined or wayward tendril, life will change and you will be forced to change with it. Let's resolve to accept our transitions gracefully, twined together by the knowledge that how we choose to live our life effects the souls of those we briefly connect with. For everyone out there losing their hold and for everyone grasping tightly to something new, I wish you peace. I've done both and will again and again. Happy first day of 1st grade, sweetie.

Again with the Math and Music

2009-08-11T12:26:00.004-05:00

Remember a few posts ago, when I rambled on about my love-hate relationship with math? I made reference to the golden ratio (which is the perfect confluence of art and science) in the music of Chopin. While I try to get motivated and snap a pic of the sock I finally finished, check out this entertaining example of art and science that is the pentatonic scale, a language universally spoken, even if you didn't know you knew the words.

World Science Festival 2009: Bobby McFerrin Demonstrates the Power of the Pentatonic Scale from World Science Festival on Vimeo.

I've got nothing. And that's everything.

2009-08-05T07:22:00.005-05:00

two farm pictures are in shop now

I am writing a post I try not to write. The kind that you feel obligated to send out since you have been quiet for a week. Have you ever received a phone call from a friend and after you say the hellos, you both just hold the phone in silence, interrupting occasionally with half - hearted
"Well, (long pause) I've got no news" answered with " Yeah, (sigh), me neither." but neither of you hang up? It is a comfort call, a need to feel connected, and to know we are real to someone and not forgotten. This is my comfort call to you.

(Long pause)

Well. I've got no news. (Sigh) But I have been busy. Daughter had a Fairy Tea Party that was a sugar high best fest. I am on the foot of a sock, for me, that has taken me longer than any other sock ever knit. I keep getting distracted by Per Petterson and Haruki Murakami novels. And I have slept less than 5 hours a night for the past three nights trying to write the story of the two characters that are constantly buzzing in my ear and won't leave me alone. I like them, these two made up people, but they are insistent I write it all down and I am becoming a bit obsessed in a sleep deprived sort of way. I am getting prepared for another school year, which begins a week from Thursday. I also am chomping at the bit over the many fabulous knit magazines coming out this fall. And Brooklyn Tweed has a book?! Somebody hide my credit card. Well,(yawn), other than that, I've got nothing. I think that is everything. 'Mkay, talk to you later . Bye. (click)

The Farm

2009-07-28T07:44:00.000-05:00

The kids and I drove over to Georgia to visit my Uncle Gary and Aunt Stacey. Can only one day be a constant roller coaster of awesome? Yes, friend, it can. We swam, fished, golfed, ate (oh boy, did we eat), picked apples, and toured every one of the 380 acres inside the fence plus a few more outside the fence including a hidden 27 acre lake.

Since we were with Gary, every minute of our tour was full of stories that were so funny my cheeks hurt from smiling. He is a wealth of knowledge and the unbounded excitement he has for a 250 year old pecan tree or discovering the location on the shoals of the original settlers is infectious. He is a man who loves what he does and you can't help be inspired by that.

We rode around on jacked up golf carts, sometimes going so off road that my backside only touched the seat intermittently, and went on a dusk search for deer. I was foolish enough to think this land was too beautiful to describe during the day, but then the sun began to set and the long shadows stretched out to chase us back to the house. The beauty of the night's silhouettes under the quarter Buck moon was humbling. We were in town to celebrate my mom's 60th birthday and my daughter's 6th. Both exclaimed this was the best day of their life at different points. That is a better gift than anything we could have put in a box. Thank you, Gary and Stacey!

Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better.
Albert Einstein

Shop Update

2009-07-20T16:17:00.002-05:00

I didn't care that it was raining and the bench was wet. A bag with 5 pounds of powdered sugar smothering a lump of fried dough gets heavy. Sometimes you have to get your pants dirty to enjoy life.

New photographs are available in my shop. Grab a coffee and come visit.

On Math and Chopin

2009-07-18T18:02:00.006-05:00

Say it with me, ahhh divina proportione

I am sure I have mentioned before how poor my math skills are. Dirt poor. When confronted with having to do math in my head and answer out loud, my mind closes a door. No matter how furiously I knock seeking the answer, the neurotransmitters hiding behind the door insist loudly there is, "nobody home, go away, don't come back later." It hasn't helped my case that I am surrounded by a family of engineers and math teachers who all just 'get it'. They can visualize the numbers but I can't. Math is a foreign language to me.

There is hope though; if you show me math in a practical sense, I get it. Take the golden ratio or 'divine proportion', which I won't butcher by trying to explain. Aesthetically, it equals all of those perfect swirls in the sunflower up there, pleats in pine cones, crests of waves, even our own human form. According to this wiki article, the ratio is easily recognized in the works of my favorite composer, Chopin. Nocturne No. 2 in E Flat is a good example of the use of proportion, especially the sequence towards the end, which reminds me of watching the koi bubbling from the bridge at Seiwa-en, their scales shimmering beneath the cherry blossoms floating on the surface of the lake. Isn't it odd that even the happiest memories can quietly break your heart?

So, there you go, even when I finally understand a math concept, it still threatens to drive me to tears. I guess this is life's way of reminding me that the mind and the heart have to be in balance, in proportion, for contentment to exist. That is a language I am beginning to understand.

Opus Spicatum

2009-07-15T09:59:00.004-05:00

I love to study brick and stonework. Masons combine strength, engineering, and art to create practical structures from an unforgiving medium. Some very clever masons will throw in an odd pattern on an otherwise plain wall or path. One of my favorites is herringbone. Opus Spicatum is Latin for spiked work; the technique is usually an accent since it is, structurally speaking, weak. Aesthetically speaking, for me, herringbone is especially captivating in mossy walkways leading to secret gardens, smartly cut wool suits, and knit hats.

Pattern: Opus Spicatum by Kate Gagnon (she who can design no wrong)

Needles: US #4 and 6 circular

Yarn: KnitPicks City Tweed alpaca (oh, the tweedy softness!)

Knit to pattern. For photo, hat is stretched on a plate, and wears more like a beanie rather than a beret.

When Life Gives You a Wedgie, Make a Hedgie!

2009-07-07T07:49:00.011-05:00

To alleviate the pain of the worst haircut of my life, other than the "Dorothy Hamill" my mom subjected me to at the tender age of five (sorry, Mom, it still stings), I am focusing on this little fellow. He makes me smile every time I enter the room. After I trimmed up the uneven ends and borrowed my daughter's barrettes, the haircut isn't so bad; it just isn't at all what I asked for. Too add insult to injury, my husband came home from work and after a prolonged silence declared "wow, it makes you look approachable." I chose to ignore that.

For anyone who has suffered an unfortunate shock at the hand of another, this pattern is for you. Bad feelings instantly vanish on sight of these wee hedgies, who are the epitome of approachable.

Pattern: Little Oddment Hedgehog by Little Cotton Rabbits

Needles: US # 2 and 4 dpn's

Yarn: oddments of Knitpicks Bare DK and City Tweed in Tahitian pearl and Merino Style in black

Mods:

I can kitchener stitch with my eyes closed, but mattress stitch alludes me so I knit this up in the round. I began at the end of the pattern (the nose) and followed the directions backwards, increasing where decreases were originally written. Before I kitchenered the last 14 stitches at the rump, I stuffed him full of cotton balls. The body yarn was not thicker than the face so I knit in garter rather than stockinette to give him a textured look. I can see many more of these in my future, maybe an entire array. By the time I'm done knitting a whole herd, my hair should have grown out a bit. Ah, the promise the future holds.

Old Town

2009-07-06T10:38:00.006-05:00

My 4th of July celebrations started early with a morning trip into Old Town before we walked down to the Farmer's Market by the creek. There are several new businesses and the owners were so gracious I had to share. These shops are all located in the 1880's buildings that supported the train depot, coal mines, gins, and mills that flourished here for many decades.

La Reunion Coffee Shop, operated by Del and Robin Howell, will be my go-to spot once my son starts preschool in the fall. I plan on spending many a free hour nestled amongst the antique furnishings, and exposed brick and beams, noshing on their excellent coffee and delicious bistro food. The shop has a wonderful island plantation vibe perfect for reading Hemingway while sipping your favorite brew.

If La Reunion takes you back in time, Wildflower Wax Candle Studio and Boutique, brings you back to the present with fabulous candles, jewelry, unique gifts items, and vintage boots. The studio evokes that perfect blend of kitsch and cool, and best of all, the items are made by local artists. Want to be an artist? Make your own candles in the studio!

Cross the street to that little tin-roofed shotgun shack I fell in love with a few months back

and welcome Judy Ellington who operates The Monkey Basket. She puts together the best gift baskets and gift items. Judy is a familiar face here and we are lucky to have her back in town again.

Congrats and good luck to all of the owners, I am glad you are here!

Holy Guacamole.

2009-07-01T07:00:00.001-05:00

My husband's Grandmother, Gwen, sent this Classic Elite sweater kit my way when she realized she would never knit it up. Included are eleven 115 yd skeins of Inca Alpaca in a wine color, one each in eight other colors, plus a natural and grey skein of Caravan Camel. Wow. There is plenty of the wine for a long sleeve pullover for me, but what do I do with the other skeins? My eyes are bleary from searching Ravelry for hours after receiving the package. Any suggestions?

My Almanac

2009-06-28T14:16:00.004-05:00

I am a happenstance gardener, unlike my Grandpa, whose abilities are housed in his whole being because a single thumb just isn't big enough. Whole catalogs of wisdom and experience are etched in his memory as clearly as the lines on his hands. Talking to him and my Uncle Gary is like flipping through the Farmer's Almanac, except much funnier. Gary knows what fish are biting in the lake by which tree is budding out. "Old Timers say the crappie are biting when the Redbud blooms" he explains with a smile that is one half respect and one half amusement. The old timers are always right. We both subscribe to this natural science, as most gardeners do, that boils down to the fact everything is connected. Water and air temperature, moon phase, soil health, sun and shade, everything has it's place and purpose.

You would think gardening would be a simple science then wouldn't you? Basically propagating, planting, growing, and harvesting are simple, but the motions aren't enough. The difficulty of gardening is in the letting go. You plan, you toil, you hope and pray, but in the end, you have to let go because you are only a tiny part of the equation; you are not in control. Nature is in control and even though you do all the legwork to the best of your ability, you have to eventually step back and patiently wait for the outcome. Whether you are rewarded with the juiciest red tomato, or foiled by an unforeseen drought, you are the better for having trusted your instincts, listened to the wisdom of those before you, and participated in one of life's concentric circles. I am reminded of something my dad said when I was pregnant, " Don't worry about the one thing that could go wrong; recognize the miracle in the hundreds of things that go right."

I have a rocky yard so I garden in pots and small raised beds. This weekend, inspired by the surprise sunflower blooming from my compost bucket, I put some seeds in soil and will wait patiently (so not my forte, but I am working on that) to see what happens. Hopefully the pumpkins will be a reality in October despite the fact I planted them when the moon is waxing rather than waning. If nothing comes of them, I'll have learned a lesson. Either way gardening, for me, is time well spent.

Kate's Cardigan

2009-06-24T08:32:00.005-05:00

Yet another February Baby Sweater off the needles for my cousin Michelle's impending arrival. These little knits fly. In a fit of finishing up the Harry Potter series on audio book, I have been a knitting machine. I actually finished this several days ago and am also almost done with a stranded hat. I have knit so often in the past week that I have Knitter's Neck- you know what I mean. Ouch!

This cardigan is knit in the new organic cotton yarn from Knit Picks, Simply Cotton. Advertised as a sport weight, I think it is closer to fingering weight. The cotton is very soft, no splitting, and came out of a low heat dryer with out pills or too much shrinkage. I like this cotton very much, but this pattern benefits from the smooshy-ness of wool. I used size 4 needles and ended up with a 18.5 " chest circumference. The rose buttons are vintage and the hanger used in the photo belonged to my Grandmother when she was a child. Can't wait to meet you, Kate!

Old Sofa Socks

2009-06-16T14:42:00.005-05:00

When you open your mailbox to a surprise package of Pigeonroof Studios scrappy skeins from your pal the Lady Knits, a million ideas run through your mind as to what you can do with these small amounts of awesome yarn. I needed a portable project for our road trip to Chattanooga* this past weekend and a pair of peds fit the bill. I didn't have enough of the yellow that Larkin sent to complete both feet but I remembered I had some matching brown from these socks. Voila! A quick project was born.

While sewing up the toe on the last sock I pondered what I would call these. 'Eggs on Toast' or 'Dandelion' or maybe 'Honey Bee'. I asked my husband what he thought and after a quick sideways glance (he was driving at the time) he declared they looked like an old sofa. I really could not argue. They do have that 1970's Harvest Gold vibe. I used my generic top down sock formula, casting on 60 stitches and starting the heel 4 rows after the ribbing ended.

* Trip was fantastic! Still sorting out the hundreds of pictures I took so more on this to come.

** Many many thanks for all of the Buttercup love. I was flattered silly.

Variation on a Buttercup

2009-06-08T09:09:00.003-05:00

Pattern: Buttercup by Heidi Kirrmaier

Yarn: Berroco Ultra Alpaca Light "aurelian"

Needles: US# 4 circular and DPN

I am going to sing the praises of this pattern just like the others who have finished her. Buttercup is simple and, as you can see, easy to modify. I followed Heidi's variation instructions with one or two small differences:

1.I cast the stitches on for the lace panel as I do for underarms (not on a separate needle)

2. I only did 3 a-line increases instead of 6

3. I used a 16 stitch sideways garter border on the hem and sleeves.

I love this sweater. It fits well but the next one I make will not have the extra sleeve stitches which just stick out like too much fabric rather than giving a pouf. I won't do the a-line increases at all since I ended up with too much fabric across the back since there is no waist shaping.

Overall, I highly recommend this pattern. This will be my go-to fall sweater to layer over a long sleeve tee. I also find that I have much more success with garments knit in a DK or lighter weight wool. I love all of the top down designs, but most are too bulky for my frame and the warm winters here. Knit a Buttercup today, you'll be glad you did.

Summer Reading

2009-06-01T07:53:00.004-05:00

I've enjoyed following the lists of summer reading books you are sharing in the blogosphere. My reading includes listening to all of the Harry Potter series on audio-book while knitting or exercising and I've limited my bound book reading to these two (which at a total of 1500 pages is not as limited as it seems).

First is Jonathon Strange & Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke, a physically impressive work of fantasy and historical fiction written in a style reminiscent of the Romantics; full of the uncertain mix of the natural and the supernatural that I appreciate. Imagine Tolkein and Austen, relying heavily on the editorial suggestions of R.L. Stevenson and M. Shelley, co-wrote a novel that describes the real world during the Napoleonic Wars by way of two men involved in the surreal world of magic. For me, a lover of history with a soft spot for the imagined, this novel reads like a textbook that I fall asleep and dream in the middle of. I had the same experience when I read the Iliad and the Odyssey. Fabulous. At over 1000 pages in paperback, I'll be surprised if I can finish this by the end of summer or I'll have it read in a week. You know how that goes.

Next is Doubt: A History by Jennifer Michael Hecht. The subtitle says it all really: The Great Doubters and Their Legacy of Innovation from Socrates and Jesus to Thomas Jefferson and Emily Dickinson. I am only a few chapters in but can tell this will be one of those books I refer to for the rest of my life. I find myself nodding in agreement and saying things to the book as I read suggesting I've either lost my mind, or more probably, discovered an overview of philosophy, religion, and art that expresses my jumbled thoughts on 'It All ' accurately and with humor. Regardless of your state of faith, I would suggest reading this for a fascinating history of Doubt itself and the amazing ways this distinctly human foible has created the world we live in.

So based on my summer reads, one Romantic and one with a nod towards Enlightenment, you might wonder where my beliefs fall. Squarely between the two I suspect, which I describe (with a mysterious air to hide my inability to succinctly express those beliefs) as Heatherist to those who are unlucky enough to inquire. What are you reading this summer?

Wish You Were Here

2009-05-28T09:24:00.005-05:00

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet

To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.

Lord Byron

Thank you for all of your sympathies. Your kind words mean so much to my family. We needed a break from life and found reason to dance again while on vacation. I'll be back next week to share more beach scenes and knitting. I am deep into the body of Buttercup (rav) and I think this might be the first sweater I've knit that will get actual wear. Hopefully I didn't just jinx it!

Farewell P-Cat

2009-05-21T08:07:00.004-05:00

Last night we said goodbye to our dear kitty Palsamour. The last few weeks have seen her rapidly decline. When she stopped eating a week ago we knew she was ready to move on, as my husband lovingly joked, to her tenth life. The kids and I took her outside for the first time to enjoy the grass beneath her feet, the wind on her fur, and the sound of the birds twittering at the feeders. She was happy.

As my husband put her in the carrier, my daughter asked if she could write Palsamour a letter. She drew a picture of our precious black cat and wrote 'I will miss your meow'. We all will miss her singular meow, her sweet disposition, and the even the annoying habit she had of sleeping in the crook of our knees, twisting us like a pretzel all night. Love you bluppet; we are the better for having known you.

A February Baby Sweater and Hat Tale

2009-05-17T10:41:00.015-05:00

My town is awash in the rainy season. While I look forward to the lumpy tomatoes and plump peas this deluge will help produce later in the summer, I now have to deal with dark days and visitors that pop in to keep dry. Some are more welcome than others. Spiders are most unwelcome although this does not deter them; stubborn lot they are. One welcome guest is Mrs. Prudence Estonia Tinkenstitch, who resides at Third Pot From Left, Gardening Bench Shelf, Northeast Province, Pneuma Territories. She often calls on the Fairies whose door is located in my daughter's room. According to Aunty Pru, as she prefers to be called, the fairies have the finest quality threads (at the steepest prices too). She thinks the Fairies have a monopoly going.

" Not to mention," she adds in a surprisingly loud voice, " the dust is nigh impossible to remove. Sticks to everything, everyone, and everywhere. Even found it in the root cellar all sparkly in the dark. Who ever heard of sparkly potatoes? Tisk. "

Aunty Pru is the self appointed authority on all things stitched. She never fails to inspect and critique the needle work she sees, generously offering her services free because, according to her, it would be a disservice to her talent and skill if she did not try to better others through its use. Despite being impossibly farsighted, Aunty Pru maintains her assessments are the only salvation of a stitched piece from being immediately tossed in the donate bin by the recipient.

"Craftmanship, Quality, and Even Tension are the trinity to a proper stitcher," Aunty Pru instructs as she eyes the garment. I have noticed, and thankfully Aunty Pru has not, the person whose work is being inspected tends to look at her with a mixture of respect and annoyance, as one in a rush watches an arthritic old woman cross the road. For most of these people, the whole experience can't end soon enough.

" Hmmm, good tension, soft wool, and vintage buttons (nice touch). But oh dear, oh dear, look this button pulls a bit. Should have placed the hole farther from the increase. Pity that. And there, is that a drop stitch picked up twisted? Surely you should have seen that in time to fix it. Well, it is definitely not perfect, and I know since I have knit several of these with out error, but I am confident the baby won't mind. Let us hope the mother is as forgiving." Aunty Pru mumbled as she tugged at the hat's hang loop.

I am pleased to report that after Aunty Pru thoroughly inspected my FBS with matching hat, while not perfect, it is passable. Upon promising to practice my buttonhole technique and be more careful with dropped stitches, Aunty Pru brought her self up to her full 3 inches and in an authoritative voice bestowed upon me her rare and most precious seal of approval:

" It will do. "

Mother's Day Weekend Redux

2009-05-11T10:18:00.010-05:00

click to embiggen

Fun had by all this weekend. First the kindergarten field trip to the zoo on Friday, my first off campus chaperon experience. I passed with flying colors, the children had a blast, and the one who wandered off while the other five were in the restrooms had no idea she was considered lost for a full 2 minutes when I retrieved her from the playground area. I call that success. Later we hid in the laundry room and took time lapse photos with flashlights.

Then it was an early morning cheering session for our best friend who scored a goal in the right net. Hooray! Straight from the ball fields to another park for a birthday bash that was definitely a good time as evidenced by the two sweaty, filthy, icing smeared, ketchup stained, children I stripped naked at the door and carried directly to the tub afterwards. The water turned so dark my son demanded I get him out and drain it because he was convinced his sister must have pooped in the water. She was not amused.

Later Saturday night, my dad and brother came into town and treated us to Mexican food and good conversation. Having them here makes me so happy. Having them here with chips and salsa makes me delirious. Sunday I cooked a big breakfast before they left. Love you guys!

The kids made me an awesome card which read, "we may be small but we love you best of all." They rock. Included was an Itunes gift card. Daughter came up with that gift idea herself. Good Job! Then we went for a drive to a nearby state park to tour the wildlife rehabilitation center on the mountain top where we were chased by bears of the stuffed variety. Spent awhile staring at the vibrant paddle boats and canoes until the lightening sent us sloshing back to the car. Off to a hot meal out and home again. I spent the rest of the rainy evening listening to an audio book, sipping lavender tea, and knitting a February Baby Sweater. Tonight my in-laws come for a long overdue visit. My life is full of friends and crazy happenings. I am more grateful than I can say, even if it means I do laundry every. single. day.

Floating To The East

2009-05-06T07:27:00.011-05:00

Surface tension. That is all a bubble is; water and soap strengthening each other's weak points. Spheres with swirling iridescent colors, like oil slicks, but purer, less distasteful.

One would be thought mad to stand and stare at a puddle of oil. But bubbles are made to be watched with breath-holding anticipation for the inevitable pop bursting open nostalgia in our hearts. There is happiness and sadness in equal measure when studying a bubble.

We will watch and wonder and let our mouths hang open. We will smile and clap and laugh out loud. We will cheer the bubble that makes it to the sky, hoping we too could hold the clouds inside ourselves to delight, to awe, to inspire. And we will sigh, looking down at our bare toes in the grass, wishing the magic was more than simple science floating on air.

Baktus Scarf

2009-05-01T09:17:00.016-05:00

Pattern: Baktus Scarf (r) by Strikkelise

Yarn: Knit Picks Palette in grey and ivory

Needles: US #4 circular

I love this pattern. The garter is soothing, and when using stripes, a great stash buster. I could have made this a bit bigger by knitting to 80 stitches before decreasing instead of 68, but I liked the smaller size which is similar to my cowls. Recommended for trip knitting.

This project was finished in time for the wrap up of Project Spectrum's 'North' months of March and April, but since 'East' incorporates yellows, whites, and grey, this is really a segue from one direction to the next. Which happens to suit my mood anyway. I have had a somber month and can feel the sun peaking out from clouds physically and metaphorically speaking. I have a bit of energy back and am ready to tackle some knitting and pictures inspired by air, sun, and wood. First up will be a baby sweater. I am having trouble narrowing down my options (there are so many cute patterns) and any suggestions are welcome. I will be using a DK weight wool.

Speaking of sun, this is a behind the scenes of my photo shoot this morning. I hopped out of the shower and tried to get a good picture before the sun woke up my Little Man, but as you can see, he snuck up behind me and giggled while rubbing his tummy on my wet hair. To mark the first day of PS 'East' I am spending the day snuggling with my sunshine guy. He makes me happy when skies are grey. Happy May Day!

Hidden In The Stitches

2009-04-27T09:13:00.000-05:00

I write this bleary eyed, stooped, and feeling a bit puffy. No, I didn't overindulge in the Pinot or have my heart broken last night. I stayed up well past the witching hour to finish a book. I don't often physically read books anymore, I tend to listen to the audio versions so I can knit at the same time. This book, The Lace Reader by Brunonia Barry, called out to me from the dusty shelves. There is lace and a craggy cliff/seascape on the cover, how could I resist judgement based on that? I popped it into the bag alongside my children's weekly haul.

This intricate story weaves around the lives of the Whitney women. There is a bit of everything in this book; thrills, mystery, religious zeal, mental illness, psychic abilities, intuition, centuries of abusive power, and the circle of life. All of these themes wrap and twist, seemingly disjointed and unreliable, but by the end, Barry knits them all together into a gossamer piece of lace that reveals the whole story connected in the patterns. The story can only be known when the single thread that makes the whole is finally bound off. Adding to the historical overlapping the modern arc of the setting of Salem is the coincidence that I am also listening to The Scarlet Letter on Craftlit. I recommend reading both for an interesting study in the layered lives of women.

I've been working on an odd little knit, inspired by this striking example. Worked in garter stitch increasing and then decreasing back to only 4 stitches, the finished result is a crescent shape with a triangular point midway, like a stylized number 3. I am knitting this with a particular person in mind, each stitch mirrors their exhaustive journey up hill and eventually, slowly, down. The lace readers in the book could see the past, present, and future in the lace patterns. I cannot read like those women, but I can knit with the intention of this person's life becoming whole again. I guess you could call this a prayer shawl, but as I am not given to traditional prayer, an intention scarf it is. Each stitch is a step in my life and theirs, an entwining of our days, a map of the need we have for one another right now. Eventually I will bind this off and cut the yarn. This act will signify the end of a mutual journey. Regardless of the outcome of my stitches or their test, the finished object will be a beautiful reminder of the belief in one another to make it to the next moment, stronger, wiser, and a stitch closer to complete.

Invisible Threads

2009-04-20T17:01:00.008-05:00

I had hoped that I would be able to find an inspirational quote or passage to accompany this photo. I wanted a simple post, a quick post, an easy greeting for a Monday. I scoured my books and notes, even visited a few pop-up laden quote sites, all to no avail. I found beautiful poems and moving sentences in these places, but all of my efforts left my mind swimming in circles amidst a cacophony of other's words.

A few days ago I went for a walk by the pond, trying to quiet my roiling emotions. I had let the mixture of a lingering head cold and the demands of daily life build up in me to a point that I was mad at everything. Not that I was being unreasonable, but I found myself having to frequently apologize for strong words to the people who needed gentle assurances the most. I was, to put it in harsh terms, being pissy. I felt the kind of angry that subverts good intentions and eats at you all day long.

The sun was just beginning to set; my shadow stretched into the water beside me. I could hear the chorus of ducklings peep-peeping from beyond the bridge. The mother duck never made a sound as her noisy brood turned in wobbly circles, bouncing off one another like fluffy bumper cars. I watched as she would steer them as a whole by subtle shifts in her demeanor causing the ducklings to immediately follow her as if tethered by an invisible thread. Occasionally one curious paddler would stray outside the protective rippling boundary of his mother's wake. She gave him time to explore and patiently waited for the imprint instinct to kick in sending him splashing back to the group. I watched and listened until the sun had slipped behind the hill and the fisherman packed up their boxes. My anger, just a mask of feeling helpless and not in control of the week, subsided. The invisible threads of insecurities disintegrated.

Mother duck reminded me that when I am not in control of a situation the least effective reaction is to stop trusting in my capacity to be quietly present. She knew that duckling would stray but instead of raising a fuss, panicking the rest, and creating an even bigger mess that would take her much longer to fix, she just listened and watched and trusted he would come back around because he needs to know she will be there for him. I saw that instead of trying to fix things that go wrong for the people I love, they need me to simply be there, patiently listening and watching as they swim in circles, testing the boundaries of their own invisible threads.

http://www.pneuma.etsy.com/

Fabric Trim Hem Tutorial

2009-04-16T09:17:00.015-05:00

I was flooded with inquiries about the hem of my pants. Get it? Flooded... ha! Anyway, I did not make these, my generous Aunt Sandra found them while thrifting, but the construction seems pretty easy to accomplish. I am going to give my observations of the process, like a recipe. If one of the fantastic seamstress bloggers amongst you makes a proper tutorial, send me a link to edit into this post. Also, if you create a pair of these hemmed pants drop me an email so I can reciprocate the positive comment goodness. Please refer to my sidebar for fabric shop links.

The hem itself is actually a large panel constructed of a 1.5" width of grosgrain ribbon sewn to a 3" width of cotton fabric. The length will be equal to the circumference of the bottom of the pants leg plus at least a 1/4 of an inch for a seam allowance. You will be sewing through heavy layers so use a heavy duty or denim needle on your machine.

1) Decide where you want the bottom hem of the pants to hit on your leg, remember you will be attaching the fabric hem to the pants fabric itself so you can ultimately turn them up like I do in the first photo. For example, when I wear these uncuffed, the bottom hem of the fabric and jeans combo hits me at the ankle. So if you like this look, trim only enough of the pants off at the bottom to reach to your ankle. The important thing to remove in this process is the thick original hem of the pants.

2) Pin the ribbon to the fabric with a 1/4" allowance of the fabric behind the ribbon. (Fraying won't show) Run a seam straight across the bottom edge of the ribbon to attach these together. Place it around the pants leg to determine where the sides will meet, pin and remove from pants. Stitch this seam closed to form a tube.

3) Turn the pant leg inside out. Position your fabric panel tube so the bottom edge of the fabric (not the ribbon) lines up with the bottom of the pants. The fabric will be wrong side up. Pin in place and sew together with a 1/2" allowance. Turn the fabric tube outward and press the seam flat so you have a crisp edge of about 1/2" of fabric showing on the inside. For those of you who have sewn quilt binding, this should be familiar.

4) Now turn the pants leg right side out. Flip the fabric tube over the bottom of the pants and pin in place. Sew together with another straight seam across the top of the ribbon edge this time. The ribbon gives a stiffness and weight to the upturned cuff that you see in the first photo. Press to sharpen the edges and set the seams.

5) Enjoy your new sassy pants.

Moss + Stone Socks

2009-04-14T10:18:00.005-05:00

Pattern: my improv of the stitch pattern from the Birthday Cowl
Yarn: Madeline Tosh Hand Dyed Sock in 'lichen'
Needles: US# 1 dpn

In keeping with Project Spectrum's March color green I opted to knit up my much beloved hank of Madeline Tosh rich in greens and grays. The wool reminded me of the mossy stones around my town. The finished result with the pooling and biasing of the stitch pattern is just what I had imagined the socks would be. I do not usually like pooling and will rip and re-knit with adjusted cast on numbers, but these looked so authentically mossy that I couldn't allow my perfectionism to mess with the process. I have declared my love of this yarn before and this experience is no different. I'll be posting more pictures over the next couple of weeks that are chock (or should I rock) full of mossy, watery, stony, grassy goodness.

If you would like to knit this pattern, it is simple and can be carried down the foot as well.
I used a 64 stitch cast on, knit an inch of 2x2 ribbing and then repeated the next two rows to the desired length:
Row 1: *SSK, K4,YO,K2*
Row 2: K all

April Moon

2009-04-08T14:16:00.010-05:00

Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems.

Rainer Maria Rilke

In each of our minds there is a special file for the words, pictures, and memories that make us feel most alive when recalled. I collect faded moons there among poems and quotes that attach themselves to hems of the garment of self. These bits of mental ephemera are like talismans that protect, inspire, remind, and assure. Rilke inhabits quite a large corner of this file. He wrote thousands of long letters and knew that one must surround themselves with loving people, but that nothing was more sacred than solitude. In the last week I've been very busy, happily so, but busy enough to feel like I haven't done one thing completely from beginning to end. No matter how many lines I drew through my list, each accomplishment felt empty. I blame it on that moon up there. What a doozy. I am confident I am not alone in feeling her effects.

The symphony of night was playing softly, the nesting phoebe on the porch rustling on her eggs, the frogs singing arias, the wind chiming the pine cones under the boughs reflected in the moon, and I was awed by it all. Clicking the shutter, I added another moon to my collection. This April moon will always remind me there is solitude to catch your breath and center your heart, even if only for a few moments. Finding it might be harder than you think, but recognizing you're experiencing it is a satisfying accomplishment; one to be savored completely from beginning to end.

Motivation

2009-04-03T09:50:00.005-05:00

It is only 10 am but I am declaring this a weird day. Thunderstorms pushed through yesterday leaving a damp morning here. I filled the bird feeder, assaulted by a bitter wind spicing the air with the aroma of a log fire. I had stepped out of spring and into fall. Very disconcerting. I can't decide if I want to go to the park or hide in the house. This Friday feels emotionally like a Monday. That isn't fair at all. Maybe if I stare long enough at my new print here, I'll get a boost of motivation. Or maybe, I'll just mope around and wonder what I am missing all day. Don't you miss out on printing your own motivation. Generously designed by moleitau to be shared. I turned mine orange in picnik. What color inspires you to create?

Project Spectrum 2009

2009-03-30T14:04:00.024-05:00

Project Spectrum 2009 focuses on the elements and colors associated with the four Cardinal directions (N,S,E,W). I am a bit slow to start this year, but have found plenty of inspiration from my walks and knitting that coincide with the March/April category: North {green, stones/gems/rocks, winter, earth}. There are some beautiful stones and rocks covered in moss and surrounded by green spring weeds in my neighborhood. My daughter calls the broken rock basin a unicorn trough.

I am stuck here on this sentence. For two days I've been trying to write my thoughts on caring for the planet. For two days I've been typing and deleting. The problem isn't a lack of information, it is my inability to discuss the importance of doing your part for the environment without becoming angry and even resorting to name-calling certain groups of people who just don't seem to get it. I can feel my ire rising even now. My passion for this earth and all of her wonders cannot be considered mild, diplomatic, or even fair. My opinions in this case are not only resolute, they bite with dripping fangs.

The stones, the moss, the gurgling rain glutted stream, even the annoying barrage of gnats, brings me peace, stills me from the center, so the ripples of worry grow farther apart until they cease. This is my church. I hear a voice in the wind, feel a hand resting on my shoulder in a ray of sunlight, and see my connection to the universe mapped in the striations of rock. This earth is my home and I will defend and respect her to the end. Please join me.

For Rent

2009-03-25T07:48:00.007-05:00

I took a walk through town and counted the for rent signs. This little building is my favorite. Shabby and simple, those large front windows watching out for the one who stops and stares a few minutes longer than the rest. The little building will put on it's best expression, standing taller, catching the sunlight on its tin roof. The person will not quite know why they like this small rough place but will not be able to forget it. They will spend the day running errands and chopping vegetables picturing red geraniums blooming in the drooping window boxes. They will hear the door creak open to the warm sound of a visitor's hello and the rhythmic tapping of a dog's nails on the worn wooden plank floors because this is the kind of building that likes dogs and visitors. On the rainy days, when the cars blur past and the trains move quietly on the rails, this little building will throw its door and windows open, spreading itself out like a cat sleeping on its back lulled by the tin roof symphony. The person and the building will be perfect for each other. The for rent sign will be locked in a drawer that never need be opened again.

I took a series of photos around town the day I snapped this one. I am working on adding them to the shop soon. I want to say thanks to the couple that parked right in front of this little building just as I was taking its picture from the opposite curb despite the 15 empty spaces on that side of the street. I really liked your car, just not in my shot, but it was comfortable when I had to sit on the hood to get this picture.

I have entered a couple of my photos in the category competitions for JPG Magazine. The other photography is amazing, so many talented people submit. I have been warmly welcomed and hope to learn more from the artists there. If you would like to check out the site and vote for my photos, go here and here. Thanks!

What Did You Call Me?

2009-03-20T14:39:00.004-05:00

Today is the Vernal Equinox, which means for those of you standing on the North Pole right now, you will be enjoying 6 months of uninterrupted daylight. If you are standing on the South Pole, you are stocking up on flashlight batteries for the 6 months of coming darkness. If you are standing in my house, you are reaching for allergy medicine.

The word vernal means characteristic of spring or youth. It doesn't sound like that is what it means does it? If you greet an acquaintance with a chipper, " Stella you look absolutely vernal today", she would undoubtedly blink a few times and make polite excuses to be as far from you as possible. Vernal can be relegated to the list of words used by erudite and perpetually misunderstood people. Also on this list: phalanx, quotidian, and corporate ethics.

This spring, my daily wish list will include sunlight, evening strolls, laughter, and beauty. What is on your seasonal wish list?

Un-Birthday Cowl

2009-03-12T15:40:00.004-05:00

What What? Two finished knits in one week? Why yes, and while the first f.o. was a gift for my brother, this cowl is a big, smooshy, soft as a chick, warm as a piece of pecan pie from The Camellia Grill, bundle of love from me to me. Knit yourself one today and your woeful anxieties over grocery prices and corrupt CEO's will melt away as fast as the ice cream on top of a piece of pecan pie from The Camellia Grill. Can you tell I'm hungry and missing New Orleans? Road trip, anyone?

Pattern: Birthday Cowl by Nova Seals

Needles: US #8 circs

Yarn: Malabrigo worsted in 'polar ice' (delicious.really.)

Details on Ravelry under pneuma

yes, I made a pin from a bottle cap

Scattered at Random

2009-03-09T06:00:00.000-05:00

I have a family that laughs more than argues, willingly spends hours in museums and actually complains there weren't enough plaques of info, will take down anyone that messes with you even when you ignorantly picked the fight in the first place, knows every embarrassing thing you've ever done but doesn't hold any of it against you, and can quote every line of at least 3 movies in tandem from memory.

Not to say everything is peace and light, there is a well of sarcasm so deep at times the only defense is to make fun of yourself first before they do. In this spirit, there are about 4 incomplete sentences I can utter that send my brother Michael and I into fits of laughter at my own expense. It is an easy price to pay to be able to utter a dozen more half sentences that also make us laugh at our own inside jokes. The title to this post is one of those. For anyone at least 30 years old you may remember Northern Exposure; this is one of Ed's lines. Classic. Just like my bro who turns 30 today. Happy Birthday! These socks are for you. I'll bring them to town later, but not in my bag ( har har har).

In the spirit of gifts and random things scattered thusly, I have a winner for the journal. First, let me say thank you to everyone who took the time to comment. I also appreciate the shop love! I have taken all the suggestions into consideration and agree that one of the most important features is for the pages to open flat. I am afraid this particular attempt doesn't live up to that. Despite my best efforts, even though I followed the tutorial to a T, the pages don't want to give completely. I am afraid the owner of this journal will find after a few good cracks, all that will be left is a nice photo and a pile of scrap paper on the floor. I am looking into having them professionally bound. I know this takes away from part of the hand made aspect, but honestly, I am not a book binder nor do I need to add another hobby to my ever growing list. I would like to assemble the photo and papers but have someone else bind them so they are quality journals.

So now that I said the thing will fall apart you are probably thinking 'please don't let me win this thing'. Too bad, I said I was giving it away and I stick to my word. According to the Random Number Generator, the lucky (?) winner is Jami. Congratulations!

details on ravelry

Lights Camera Action!

2009-03-05T00:00:00.001-06:00

pneuma.etsy.com

The shop is up! I am offering 5x7 prints of a selection of my favorite photos. Some have debuted here on the blog and some are sneaky peaks into the quotidian of my life apart from this space. This is so exciting! The listing process is on the slow side so check back often as it will take me a few days to get my initial batches posted. Where are my magic elves? Probably over at the lazy cobbler's hut again.

Local bloggers who follow the site will probably recognize a few landscapes... many more hometown shots to come.

Stop by and peruse the newest incarnation of pneuma and don't forget to leave a comment here by Saturday noon to win the journal.

Next up: A Finished Knit. Shocking, huh?