afternoon's gray mirror

I was drawn to write another post today because there is a kind of pulling in/reaching out quality in the air ~ and I've done all the editing I'm going to do for this time. 

downsizing & needling
I've been spoiled by technology that makes things small and efficient. My iPhone, cameras, the mac, the mini iPad on my wish list. I like portable knitting projects and I seek the perfect handbag, roomy yet compact and light. Sometimes I troll knitting blogs for information on yarns, patterns, the celebrity knitter's next trip, or event. Recently I've read a couple who are dealing with the challenge of storing needles. I won't even go into my collection of circulars stuffed into a large plastic bag in a tangled mess, but I have solved the dpn storage situation.

A few years ago when we were in Florence at the Uffizi, we stopped in the gift shop where I found a canvas pencil case with a Renaissance painting photo transfer on it. I wasn't thinking knitting needles when I bought it but it turned out to be perfect for sock and mittz dpns. The logo in the bottom right corner reads: FIRENZE MVSEI. It brings together two of the things I love most dearly, knitting and Italy ~ and it travels anywhere.

Then there is the mini-Denise interchangeable circular needle set. It's pretty and compact with needle sizes 4-10 ~ all I need to do almost anything. I'm downsizing again, uncluttering (is it possible?). Soon I'll make decisions about needles and yarn stash, send them off to be loved by others, but I'll keep the straight needles because among them is a set of pink enamel ones that belonged to the Italian grandmother I hardly knew, and the short red plastic ones that my granddaughter learned to knit with one summer in New Mexico when she was seven ~ besides, I like the way the mug of needles resembles an abstract art installation.

it's the sky that makes demands today
It's snowing again. Steady and wet. I drove home from town earlier, enveloped in a mysterious fog-like atmosphere. As if a thick sky curtain of pale gray was drawn down to earth to deliberately conceal every mountain and vista, maybe forever.  I couldn't see more than five feet in front of the car. Was this the same day of fresh morning snow, promising blue sky and hot sunshine? The giving and withdrawing of the season is like a pulsating live thing. But I can "praise the snow in March" because it doesn't last long. As I write, a two-foot long, two-inch thick icicle falls with a loud crash from the eave outside the window, startling me. It might turn into a night for rituals and spells. Or a glass or two of wine. Bring on the darkness, I won't be daunted.