I'm still here. Scattered & apprehensive about some things, but here.
Since I last wrote, the leaves have been blazing orange and gold despite some peculiarly warm days that fooled one of our rhododendrons into blooming. The wild bunnies have been confused as well. Should they be in their frightened-prey-animals-in-cold-weather mode, or their lackadaisical-summer-mode where they scamper fearlessly to the Carrot Giver? Yesterday, I saw a bumblebee wandering around the shrubs. Very, very odd.
On Sunday, I became a spinner. If you're on Ravelry, you can see my spinning gurani's comments here. She believes in a racial memory that blooms when you re-create an ancient fibre art, such as spinning. I was hopeless and clumsy and confused at first, when I was aping her movements. Literally, they were making no sense. But-- when I switched hands (pinched with my right hand and held the fibre with my left), it became natural and easy - and fun!
My gurani, you see, is entirely right-handed, whereas I was born sinistral and got, well, switched. I needed to find my own balance. Moments like this can lead into genetic, metaphysical, or Jungian speculations about whether some kinesthetic knowledge has been passed down in our bodies, bypassing our brains entirely, or whether the collective unconscious, and its myths and archetypes, are more literal than we usually believe. Perhaps my hands re-enacted the movements of Clotho because she once was a mortal woman ...
Penny gave me a hug - a beautiful, perfect shoulder shawl, a hug just when I needed it most. It's soft and pretty and gentle, and it makes me happy even when I just see it folded on my shelf. (I think she's going to blog about it tomorrow...)
I sent off my second hat for Save the Children. This one is so cute you could bite it: Baby Conehead. The pattern gets a little fiddly on top (MEPS!), but it's a great pattern for using up little spoonsful of Sugar/Peaches/Cream/Creme. Very soft, very cute, and very washable.
Reading: sporatic, except for Vanity Fair, which is more fun than you can imagine, and an audiobook of To The Lighthouse, which never disappoints. Up soon will be Cassandra and Jane by Jill Pitkeathly, Jane Austen: a Life by Carol Shields, and some poetry. Robert Frost, perhaps. Seems fitting.