I spent most of my day rug-hooking. I've got no shortage of chores and errands to take care of, but my reward after a week of slog is to spend my Saturdays on whatever creative project takes my fancy. It's nice to set obligations aside and just focus on doing something with my hands.
So this morning, while the sky cycled through its current routine of watery sunshine, ominous clouds and surprise flurries (enough with the snow already), I settled at the kitchen table with my hoop and my hook and my big bowl of wool strips. For the first time since I started this project I was able to settle into a rhythm and, lo and behold, suddenly I was picking up speed. My hands, which are so accustomed to knitting, where they're working in concert and in plain sight, had finally figured out how to work on either side of the linen. Left hand tensioning the strip of wool, right hand working the hook like a robin in search of a worm, away I went.
(Suddenly, all the advice from the woman who taught the class and my friend who finished her rug in a week all clicked into place. I *had* been packing my loops too tightly; as soon as I loosened up, everything got a lot easier. It only took five sessions before it clicked.)
And once I was on a roll – well. That was that. I set my sights on a finished piece and away I went, stopping only to step out for a market run. (If you get there around 1 pm, the bakers have all the bread on 2-for-1.) Other than that, it was all hooking, all the time.
I finished up around 5 pm: