Point to something that's red

More germs than inspiration in the air these days but I do have a new finished knit to share. *Cheers, Applause, Loud screams of joy*
















My first ever Wonderful Wallaby for Adam. I made size 4 since I'd heard they run a little small and it just fits, but not for long. It took two more skeins of yarn that the pattern called for (Knitpicks swish superwash, Fired Brick) and even then I ran a little short on the hood.

Otherwise, it was a simple, quick knit. It's soft and warm and Adam likes the pockets.






















Next time I'll do stockinette stitch rather than garter stitch on the hood. Garter stitch just tends to make things look more homemade than strictly necessary.

A is for Apple

With high hopes of encouraging Drew's recent, albeit rather late-blooming, interest in letters, I decided we would work together on making an alphabet book. Looking through my photos, I've found pictures to represent most of the letters.

Any ideas for Q, X and Z?

A fine line between inspiring and depressing

Other people's art:

















How do they do it?
(Photo credits on flickr)

A Halloween Hoot

I don't generally do much in the way of halloween decor. I love the colors of the season- the gourds, the fall color in wreaths and leaves brought inside. Why limit yourself to black and orange?

But I did spy an idea I really liked and decided to scan the Hideous Clutter Aisle at the thrift store for something that might work. These two owls were perfect.






















All I needed was a can of black spray paint and some willing helpers.















(Notice the use of thumb for pressing the sprayer--not the most accurate technique)
Also, probably not the best setup for spray painting but I couldn't find my drop cloth.






















Adam, despite a fever of 103, insisted on wearing his hat and helping out with the shaking of the can.

I had to pry off the eyes in order to paint and when reapplying, the glue gun was not my friend. Can you tell?


















Whether you think they looked better before or after, they are certainly transformed. Spookiness achieved.

On the eve of remembering

"In grief, nothing stays put. One keeps emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I'm on a spiral? But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?"

It occurs to me that five years ago today, my mother was on a walk to remember my son, unaware that the very next day she was to lose her own. I wonder, sometimes, without really expecting to understand, where I might be on the learning curve of grief. I'm not sure how productive it is even to speculate.

I do know that it doesn't hurt as much. What sticks with me the most is a feeling of unreality. From the moment the doctor stuck his head in our small waiting room and shook it slowly, so sorry, he was sorry. Unreality held hands with the coldest, truest facts of death there in front of us. I was seized over and over with the need to tell Andrew about it as he lay under the sheet, sneakers pointing up. "Andrew! You will not believe what just happened. You died!"

This can't be real.

Home from the hospital, we sat in chairs and stared at each other. Can't believe this.

Here we are, five years later and just the other day Keith said to me, "I still can't believe it. Why did it have to be Andrew?"

It still feels like he is on a trip somewhere.

******************************************

I sat down the other day and read C.S. Lewis' "A Grief Observed". A small book: bullets of despair, doubt and questions prompted by the death of his wife. So true to me. Yes, yes and yes.

Most of the time I feel honestly stuck in the doubts which he spelled out so clearly. I want to move past them. By the end of the book, there is some resolution to his anguish. A little hope. A kind of hope that feels real, like I might believe it someday:

"When I lay these questions before God I get no answer. But a rather special sort of 'No answer'. It is not the locked door. It is more like a silent, certainly not uncompassionate, gaze. As though He shook His head, not in refusal but waiving the question. Like, 'Peace, child; you don't understand.'"

Riddle me this

This morning I set out for a nearby sale. I arrived fifteen minutes early and joined the line already forming outside the door. Of the ten or so people in front of me, I would guess that only two were younger than seventy. We waited. I checked my cell phone, changed it to vibrate, deleted messages. I checked my watch. The woman next to me took out her cell phone and turned off the ringer. The elderly man in front of me pulled out his phone and fiddled with it. I glanced at my watch.

The line grew and turned the corner behind us. People walking by stared. An older lady near the front of the line talked non-stop.

A minute before ten o'clock, a woman came out and stood before us. She was there to establish some ground rules. "Once you are inside it gets a little crazy. Because of this, we ask that you do not bring in boxes or stack items on the floor. Instead, fill up your bag, purchase your items, deposit them in the reserved spot, take your receipt, and if you wish, go back inside to purchase more."

She then moved down the line to make this announcement one more time.

The doors were then opened and we made our way into the large room. I crossed over to my favorite section where children's items were set up. I began to sort, search and fight my way into corners, working around people who sat on the floor. I stumbled over whining kids.

I stood shoulder to shoulder with other shoppers. An elbow dug into my back. I was prodded, bumped and squished. I worked my way around the room, squeezing between silent pillar people, craning my neck.

After an hour, I had filled my bag and went up front to pay. I spent seven dollars and took away fourteen items.

Where was I?