seeing more directly what is true

Beware of that determined slide to the worst possible, barely imaginable scenario. You don't have to go there. Let's just see what happens now.        (Sharon Salzberg) 

(facsimile of Emily Dickinson's handwriting with ED mittz)

Good advice, since I just spent the last half hour or more writing and whining about waking up at 3 am to impossibly strong winds blowing in a snowstorm that turned my mind to typical wee hours thoughts of disaster, loss, old age, disease, joy, worry and doubt. When I'd finished writing, all my too many words and photos disappeared. So that's what happened then. This is now. It's snowing. It's pretty. It's winter. The dark time is coming.

Now that I've gotten that out of my system (without any wi-fi connectivity issues), I sit at my kitchen table writing in mid-morning as the snow comes and goes and have faith that in a day or so the sun will return in a Taos blue sky. There is food in the house, my cup of tea nearby, a notebook, camera (just in case), and wool. Wool. Wool.

Completed this cheerful pair of socks that reminds me of alpine ski lodges, mountains and snow that is actually fun to romp in if one is so inclined (I'm not, although I live in the environment described). I immediately began another sock with colors that simply feel good. Joyous socks, flower garden yarn, faith-in-the-future socks....

We face the darkest time of the year and I admit to often having low feelings around the holidays that include losses and gains, memories and longings. I know others do, too. My antidote is wool, color, the act of hands busily moving to create something pretty while the mind goes off on its alpha journey and diminishes some of the darkness. It is my version of hibernating into the tactile pleasure of mostly silent knitting (and writing -- they go together).

Since I no longer do an annual craft fair, I am not compelled to create "inventory" and now only knit what I love and am in the mood for. Yet I am almost always working on something and once finished I can easily let go. It seems to be about the act rather than acquisition. Since I don't need as many pairs of socks (or sweaters or scarves or hand warmers) as I turn out, they generally disappear onto other feet, hands, necks, heads...because other people love these things, too. Strangers, friends, family. It gives me great pleasure when I see or hear of someone wearing socks or hand warmers I knitted, a granddaughter wearing the felted bag, a poet using the teapot cosy as she writes and sips hot tea.