Knitting is very conducive to thought. It is nice to knit a while, put down the needles, write a while, then take up the sock again. — Dorothy Day
I feel as if I have disappeared again.
This was the transitional week, the time I had “free” to get ready, to get things done.
School starts tomorrow officially, for me, though I don’t begin teaching until Wednesday. In the meantime, I have been running around with a metaphorical dustpan and brush, chasing my life’s dust bunnies. They are very elusive.
So, I’ve given myself things to do: paint the family room, in particular. An activity to keep me from feeling too tied to the computer, to the head, to the squatty stillness of internet and laptop and writing.
Unstill, Colin and I rode, 15 very uphill miles from Stratford to Weston today. From Hilltop Drive to Hilltop Road, in fact. Carol was good enough to sagwagon us home, after a quick dip in the river.
I am rambly tired and ready to go to bed, but something came clear to me: I am knitting a blanket here in Connecticut. I whined and moaned ALOT on that bike ride today, up the hills, with my always-encouraging husband behind me. But at the end of the evening, with our feet up on the coffeetable, I slipped into bliss. My muscles ached; I am half mad with mess of the unfinished paint job, and knackered out from biting nails over my new gig.
But, there’s the slow, spinning moments, writing and planning, grinding up the hill. And there’s the fast times, my face in the breeze, when I finish a step in the project, find an answer to the academic puzzle or when I notice the shift in the light.
I recall where I am, just now. Standing still, home.