ode to things

A couple of weeks ago I packed and sent to myself, via Priority mail, a little too much knitting. It seemed I had loads of time ahead of to fill. I have been knitting at night watching movies, but how did I know that my friend would give me that gorgeous ball of sock yarn before she left, and that I wouldn't want to work on the other "old" stuff. No matter that there's cashmere in the box, and silk blends, soft warm butterscotch alpaca. No. It's all about the newest in my fickle yarn world. I did work on the second of the piquant lace and cable mitts - mostly because my hands were cold, walking these city streets in chilly wind. I actually thought I could finish and wear them by today. But after a couple of inches I was drawn back to the socks. I'll finish those and give them to my friend when she returns. A thank you for letting me live in her wonderful oasis of a home in the heart of this city. A place of coffee shops, jade water, orange leather handbags, Corinthian columns.

And a six-block neighborhood strip of frivolous shops that I browsed through this afternoon during a mindless break from today's staccato-like unfoldings. Family phone calls, sadness, cleansing wind, inability to sit down at the laptop or notebook and write anything more than feelings. That's okay, I know I'm not the only one doing it today.