Writing together (December)

Squeaking in under the wire again and I can tell that to be truly successful at this project I'd be better off writing daily than holding myself to the low, low bar of once a month. 

Went "home" for Christmas – a relatively low-key affair but with lots of family time, which was nice, and no travel shenanigans, which was nicer. The kiddo did so well at the airport and in the air, although carsickness has raised its ugly head again and so the trips to and fro were not entirely without complications. At least now I know to be prepared; I carry extra outfits, have learned how to stop my sympathetic gag reflex, and preach the gospel of the 4L ziptop bag to anyone who will listen. 

We met friends at the beach today. Brought lunch to share, watched the kids dig in the sand, tried to balance our delight at the unseasonable 12C temperatures with our horror at the unseasonable 12C temperatures. There were dogs running, and people swimming. I considered wading and then thought again; the water at that beach is cold enough to make me gasp even on the hottest August day. The afternoon was spent cleaning – that new year's clean sweep tradition that I hew to more closely as the years go by. 

I'm still thinking about ways to work more play into my days, perhaps especially this week as I consider what I want to add in 2023. More play, more joy, more rest; that's the goal. 

Part of that is a new layout for my bedroom-cum-office-cum-craft space, because losing my office to the "big girl" bedroom has meant that my sewing machine, ball winder and swift, spinning wheel, and various other craft supplies got put away. Out of sight, out of mind, out of practice – I'm suffering for the lack of a craft practice right now, but haven't quite figured out how I'll re-engage.

Anyway. Only 2 hours left of 2022, and then we'll be tipped headlong into another year. Here's to a year that brings us sweetness and light, more time with dear friends, and – dare I say it? – an opportunity for rest. 

Writing together: October(ish) 2022

October seems to have disappeared in an instant. I had every good intention to make my (self-imposed) October 30 posting deadline (even gave myself a buffer day in there) but, well. Life gets in the way, I guess.

Our month was busy. Thanksgiving weekend saw a trip to stay with friends at their cottage – a nice escape that included a turkey dinner, lots of time outside at the beach in spite of chilly fingers and windburned cheeks, and, unfortunately, a return of the wee one's carsickness. This might just be a thing for us for a while now. She blames the "wibbly wobbly" roads and I apologize that she's having a bad timey-wimey of it in the back seat, and then we deploy endless paper towels and wipes and change her clothes on the shoulder of the two-lane highway and shove it all into a massive ziplock bag and hope for the best. One day she'll get the joke. Hopefully by then she'll either have outgrown the carsickness or I'll have laid my hands on a TARDIS.

I didn't actually come here to write about carsickness. Or Doctor Who.

The weekend after Thanksgiving, we had a visit from one of my closest friends and her two sons, both under 10, both bundles of energy, both idolized by Georgia, who appreciated their attention and willingness to let her drive the train she loves to make with all the kitchen chairs. That girl loves to holler "ALL ABOARD!!" They were here for a few days and we did some tourist things (Peggy's Cove, Halifax waterfront) and some local things (packed a snack of apples and boiled eggs to watch the surfers at the beach on a blustery Sunday morning). The kids loved searching for sea glass and throwing dead crabs around and generally giving the adults a run for our money. The adults tried to hang out after bedtime and could barely stay awake.

And then...then what? The rest of the month passed in a blur and I can barely recall it even when I look at my calendar for clues. We've been sick again and again since September (that's life when you have a toddler in daycare) and so what I wish was a joke about time disappearing as though in a fever dream is actually somewhat true. At some point we both had C-19 shots (second for her, fourth for me) and flu shots; at some point I ate dinner on a boat and she ate chicken nuggets on the couch at a friend's house. (She had more fun.)(Obviously.) Isn't it something when your social engagements are outnumbered four-to-one by appointments for immunizations? Life in 2022.

(But that can't be entirely true! We had friends over for cupcake decorating and an impromptu spaghetti night. They returned the hospitality with a pumpkin painting party. I've gone for coffee. We've eaten sushi.  She went to school wearing a pair of pants as a hat. Good things happen.)

She dressed as a witch for Halloween. This involved a selection of hand-me-downs and a $2.99 hat from Toys'R'Us. I tied some sticks (windfall from September's hurricane) together to make a broom and coloured a takeout chopstick black to fashion a wand, which I adorned with some foam stars salvaged from some daycare "art." She turned me into a frog. Repeatedly. She was highly skeptical of trick-of-treating at the first house, very excited about it by the 14th house, and started falling down every three steps after the 15th house. Night over, we came home.

Turned out she had RSV and spent the next two days home from school with a raging fever. I worked part time while she watched Peppa Pig on the bed in the background of my Zoom calls. I ate all her candy. She didn't miss it.

And so it goes. This is a season of life (turn turn turn) and my big skill right now is KEEPING GOING. (Not that you'd notice by the posting of a single blog post and then nothing for over a month.) If I've learned anything over the last three years, though, it's that I can keep.going. Head down, one foot in front of the other, it doesn't look pretty but it gets the job done, keep going, keep going, keep going. There's food on the table and gas in the tank and the clothes are clean though the shoes are mismatched. Keep going. Sometimes the load lightens a bit – fantastic. An extra meal gets made for the freezer, the tub gets a thorough scrub, I manage a row or two on the sweater I'm making her. Keep going.

See you soon.

(I didn't intend for this to be a blog about My Life with Kid but it turns out that......that's probably what it's going to be. That's what my life IS now. Won't be always. Maybe this will help me remember some of it, because god knows I've already forgotten a lot of it. Thanks for reading.)

Writing together: September 2022

People keep exhorting me to "fill my cup." I laugh with a friend: "Fill my cup? Where IS my cup? What am I supposed to put in it, again?" It's under the couch, we joke, full of Duplo and dust. 

I think of my daughter, now two, banging HER cup on the table and chanting "Milk, milk, MILK." She knows what she likes, we've always said. And she's not afraid to tell you all about it.

Things I worried about before becoming a solo parent: not having any time to myself, managing to shovel snow with a newborn in tow, being able to knit while she napped.

Things I didn't consider: the possibility of a pandemic, that it was possible I wouldn't be alone for 51 weeks entire, how it would feel to somehow forget what I like, because every spare minute and dollar and thought seems to go toward the practicalities of everyday life: she needs new pyjamas, will last winter's boots still fit, what's for dinner, are we out of bananas, somehow, again?

What fills my cup? Making things. Time with friends. Time alone. Time to write. (Time – never enough!) That's my project, then, this year. Somehow finding time for those things in between the work deadlines and the endless snacks and the lost socks, the Duplos and the dust.

 

April 11: A tale of two sweaters

It's barely mid-April and I've already made two more sweaters this year than I did last year. Of course, I didn't make any sweaters last year, but that's beside the point.

The first sweater was Stopover, which I knit as part of the Bang out a Sweater KAL hosted by Mason-Dixon Knitting. This was a fast, fun, frivolous project – it's Lopi at a loose gauge, fast to knit, light as air and very warm. It only took two weeks from cast-on to bind-off and I've been wearing it a lot. I don't do them often, but I really enjoy online knit-alongs. It's great to see what everyone else is making – there are infinite interpretations – and the excitement really spurred me along. I love this sweater.

The second sweater is Bedford. I actually started this one on my Christmas vacation – got the sleeves finished and the hem cast on before I dropped everything to make Stopover. Whereas Stopover was a quick knit, this one was a bit of a slog. It's made of Briggs & Little – a nice Canadian yarn, pretty rustic, with a fairly heavy grist and no small amount of vegetable matter spun in – knitted at a fairly dense gauge. The finished sweater weighs more than a pound. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that it's basically waterproof.

I've got lots of thoughts about product vs. process, fast and slow knitting, wearability and durability after knitting these two sweaters but there's some sorting out to do first. Which one will I be wearing in a year, three years, fifteen years? I have my suspicions...

March 31: Report from the Niagara bureau

Spent yesterday travelling, and there were so many modes of transportation involved (bus, plane, moving sidewalk, car on a boat, car, car in a violent downpour) that I didn't think about meeting my daily writing commitment until I collapsed into bed at the not-at-all dignified time of 8:50 p.m. In my defence, I'd been up since 5:30 a.m. and had changed time zones, so I'd earned my faceplant moment, but still. The end of the month arrived not with a bang but a whimper.

I'm visiting family in Ontario for a few days. Today I drove around my hometown with the windows down, listening to the songs of my youth on the radio (on the oldies station: woe!), and it didn't take too much effort to feel like I was back in university, enjoying one of those few precious empty days between the end of exams and the beginning of my summer job.

Spring is a little further along here, but not much: the grass is greener and the maple branches are heavy with red buds. Earlier today, thick black storm clouds rolled in across Lake Ontario, and I caught a glimpse of a stand of weeping willow trees, backlit by the mid-morning sun, glowing chartreuse against the sky. I've yet to see any real leaves, though, and I've spied precious few flowers: maybe I'll drive out to the greenhouse tomorrow to get my fix. Either way, I've got a date for a walk with my favourite two year old, and we'll see what we can find. Diggers and trucks and buses, probably, but the joy of discovery will be the same.

PS Thanks for accompanying me on my month of blogging. I appreciated all the comments. It's always great to hear from you!

March 30: Restlessness

Today: red maple buds glowing in the late afternoon sun, the company of a raven on my walk through the park, a cacophony of starlings, a tiny fir tree on a distant spit of land, daffodils almost ready to flower, coltsfoot blooming among shards of brick in an abandoned lot, pastel skies, the fading moon.

(Look up!)

March 29: Dishevelment

Walking home the long way, my eyes refused to rest on the horizon. I'm tired of the sombre grey clouds and the skeletal trees. Every so often a gust of wind would send a leaf skittering across the pavement like a mouse. But it was never a mouse. It was the detritus of the autumn long past: leathery oak leaves, lacy half-rotten beech leaves, the occasional strip of birch bark, tumbling down the sidewalk to adorn half-dead lawns or snag in the branches of the winter-barren hedges.

And then, oh yes! under the leaves and behind the deadwood, I'd catch a flash of bright green or a little patch of purple. My heart would lift at the thought of tender leaves and tiny crocuses, and I'd squint and look harder, only to have it drop at the sight of a scrap of cardboard or a discarded plastic bag. That's spring in Nova Scotia for you: hope, elation and disappointment, all jumbled together like mulch.

It felt exactly like when you're walking through a crowd and you unexpectedly catch glimpse of one of your familiars. Just the sight of the back of their head, maybe, or the cadence of their walk; a whiff of perfume or the timbre of a laugh. Heart quickening, knowing it can't be true, you pick up the pace anyway...only to get closer and see that no, of course, it's not them. Sometimes it's almost too much to bear.

But sometimes you do see a familiar face, one that breaks into a grin at the sight of you. And sometimes you round a corner and find a sheltered garden with a southern exposure, home to a fistful of the palest mauve crocuses, a wee clump of snowdrops, heads bobbing, and a forsythia bush full of the promise of spring.

March 28: Everything's a metaphor

I do not like colouring, but I'll make an exception for colourwork charts. I spent part of Monday afternoon working up a chart for Cruden, which I'd like to be my Squam sweater. (Full colourwork on 3.25 mm needles is ambitious, but it's a vest, so it might be achievable yet.)

When it comes to colourwork I rarely go off-script, preferring to leave the complicated decisions to the experts. I haven't spent much time developing my colour sense, and I'm not always great at predicting outcomes. But it's time for that to change, so I spent some time with the pencil crayons and then I started swatching.

And I'm learning a lot already. I thought the green would really pop against the blue (it's basically invisible) and that delicate light pink that I love so much looks...completely insipid. I'm resisting the urge to rip it out completely and choose a different sweater entirely. I'll change up the colours and keep going. You have to start somewhere...

March 27: Easter bonnet

I had plans to make all sorts of things this weekend, but (hot cross buns and sweet rolls aside) in the end it's been a weekend of small milestones: another couple inches on that sock, joining sleeves to body on that sweater, and finishing up this cute little baby bonnet. It's a gift for a friend who loves purple. Ran out of yarn before I could make the ties, so subbed in bias binding instead. Pretty cute.

(Pattern; yarn)

March 26: Go forth

The morning forecast called for clear skies and sunshine after a night of torrential rain, but no such luck. Instead it was cold and grey and not even the birds seemed inclined to wake up. Even after four cups of tea I could see their point. 

Finally, well after noon, I gave up on waiting for the sun and headed out anyway. Off to the fabric shop, where I bought some fabric for a quilt and talked about (of course) hot cross buns; then across the Common and downtown. Stopped in for sundries at the grocery store: tulips, cheese, a baguette. I bought a cookie from the coffee shop at the library and ate it as I wended my way through the DalTech campus. There's something so satisfying about knowing the little back alley shortcuts that I didn't know before. 

Finally, I stopped in at the coffee shop for a chai to drink as I walked back along the boardwalk to the ferry terminal. By then the sun had come out in full, and the harbour had transformed from the morning's gunmetal grey with whitecaps to brilliant blue. There was lots of boat traffic to watch, and a cold enough wind coming off the water that I didn't mind the too-gingery drink. 

On the way home, I sat up on the open deck of the ferry for the first time this year, and marvelled again that such a ride could ever feel quotidian. 

March 25: Hot cross buns

Good Friday: one of those days when it always seems to rain. It's pouring now, but the downpour held off for most of the day – though heavy mist meant that foghorns were the soundtrack while I baked these hot cross buns.

The hot cross buns of my childhood came eight to a purple-printed bag and I suspect they weren't much more than a glorified hamburger bun spiced up with cinnamon and whatever was left from the Christmas fruitcakes. But they were a special treat each year, and I still remember them fondly. One year I tried six different recipes to try to recreate them. No luck. This year, though: success.

I used this recipe, which was both hilarious and instructive. My only modifications were to change the type of yeast (I used regular, not instant, because it's what I had on hand; I decreased the amount of milk accordingly) and to soak the raisins/currants in boiling water for 10 min before draining, patting dry and adding to the dough. Oh, and the glaze is a bit of honey mixed with hot water, because I didn't have any apricot jam.

The recipe yielded 15 sizeable buns, dictated mainly by the room I had on the baking sheet and my desire not to faff about with turning and switching pans. I should have organized a tea party...

March 24: Forbearance

I woke up just before the alarm and stood in the dark at the kitchen sink and drank a glass of water looking out at the moon. Full, yellow like an egg yolk, perched atop a column of clouds in the westward sky. Half an hour later on the other side of the house, the rising sun turned the clouds a dozen shades of pink and purple as I got dressed. Jeans and a sweater. Casual Thursday.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Reading and writing. Thai red curry for lunch. The careful crafting of emails. A shopping trip to stock up on hot cross bun supplies. On the walk home, the tang of woodsmoke in the air, and the trill of a finch nearby. Weather more like November than March. There's a storm rolling in and I'm looking forward to a quiet day at home tomorrow.

Some days you take great strides, and other days you just have to put one foot in front of the other, choosing kindness and a smile again and again. It might not be all the work, but some days it's work enough.

March 23: making plans

One day left before the weekend and I'm pretty excited about four days off. I've got serious sewing plans and the forecast is calling for rain for most of the weekend – a perfect excuse to stay inside and sew. Of course, then there's the sweater I'd like to finish, and the baby bonnet that's halfway done, and that second sock I started...not to mention that I'd like to give bagels another go, and I said I'd make rolls for Easter dinner. Four days suddenly doesn't seem like much time at all.

March 22: Each one in turn

After dinner we stood outside under the nearly full moon and kept reminiscing until it got too cold, and I was going to miss my ferry, and they were headed somewhere else, and so finally we went our separate ways, again. I headed east and they headed west, which seems to be the way of things, and on the boat ride home I thought of half a dozen things to write and discarded each one in turn.

March 21: Not such a bad thing

Say what you will about the time change, it is nice to be making dinner when the sun is still well above the horizon. The window over the kitchen sink looks west – if there weren't any houses in the way I'd have a clear view down to the harbour – and the best place to be around 4 pm on these early spring afternoons is puttering in the kitchen as the sunbeams work their way across the kitchen floor.

I say early spring but really it's late winter, and the sun doesn't shine every day. This morning began with snow flurries followed by freezing rain followed by ice pellets; around noon all the tree branches were glistening with a thin coating of ice. They glinted in the pale sun as though they'd been dipped in quicksilver, and as the wind picked up I knew a sliver of disquiet; the last thing you want when there's ice in the trees is a windstorm. But the weather was warm, or warm enough, and the wind helped with the melt and by the time I headed home everything was just wet, wet, wet.

I walked home through the park, cast iron fence beaded with raindrops, trees shrouded in fog, everything dripping. It was quiet: no bird calls, no dogs barking; just the vague sounds of water doing its work. I've yet to smell spring (you know: damp earth, worms, cut grass, the smell of a greenhouse early in the season); right now everything just smells cold and clean, with a faint mineral tang, like cold water from a deep well in a tin cup.

But things are coming to life. The forsythia bushes have changed from winter's drab to spring's yellow, almost fluorescent in the evening's gloom. Thin crocus leaves have pushed their way through the soil, and the fat buds of the tulips aren't far behind. If the weather cooperates, we might even see some April flowers. Last year it was agonizing to wait until the beginning of June to see lilacs in bloom, but last year we still had snow on the ground till mid-May. Who knows what's in store this time around. We can but hope.

Last night I took the ferry across the harbour to meet friends for dinner. The nearly full moon hung big and low in the sky, so thin it was almost translucent, like a sliver of soap or a well-handled silver dollar, edges thin from wear.

Tonight the moon was invisible, hidden behind the thick grey clouds. I hunkered down, with comfort food on the menu (chicken pot pie, lemon squares) and Paul Muldoon on the radio, and as it turns out, maybe one more winter night wasn't such a bad thing.

March 20: Ghosts

I went downtown for dinner with old friends and saw some ghosts along the way.

March 19: A finished object

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:

Hooray!

March 18: Slow and steady

It's been a while...but I'm back at it. (Some days, you just can't knit another stitch on that massive grey sweater.)

March 17: Still it thrills

Walking home through a snow squall, my heart yearns for tender green leaves and the gentle sounds of spring. But then – oh – still it thrills at the sight of birds in flight, silhouetted black against the grey-white sky.

March 16: Take notice

Instructions for living a life:

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it.

– excerpt from "Sometimes," by Mary Oliver

My friend Sherrie wrote about noticing today. She is a first-class noticer, with a wide-ranging eye and a thoughtful approach to the world. She also happens to live in a very beautiful part of the province, and her daily commutes take her past stunning beaches, wide-open ocean views and rolling hills. I love seeing glimpses of her days.

My daily commute starts in a dog park, takes me to a mall parking lot, and then wends its way through an industrial park – not quite as inspiring. But I still put my noticing skills to work.

It's tempting to get caught up in the unsavoury details: the scurf of crumpled transfers and sidewalk salt on the floor of the bus, the faint whiff of mildew and stale cooking fat, the snatches of overheard arguments. But there are reasons to smile: the two awkward teenagers, flirting over their math notes; the young boy playing peek-a-boo with a baby in a bunny hat. The unrestrained joy of the skateboarder who hops off the bus and onto his board and skims across the early-morning-empty parking lot, feigning hands-in-pockets nonchalance.

Outside, look up – stand at the traffic lights, waiting for your turn to cross, and watch the clouds scud across the sky. Watch the ravens as they stream across the Bedford Basin – they fly east in the morning, west again at night, heading home to roost. Watch the way the traffic lights shimmer when they're reflected in the puddles (because it's raining yet again). Here's the forsythia hedge by the high school, suddenly tinged with yellow, sign of hope; here's the wild rose bush, an oasis in a parking lot.

God (or something good) is in the details. Pay attention to the very very big things, and the very very small ones. Get up close; drop your mittens, drop your bags, hunker down. Muddy knees don't matter; the season's first snow drops do.