The older boys are studying Emily Dickinson just now. I ordered a great heap of books from the library, including The Gorgeous Nothings (ack, that title! sublime), which is a collection of Emily’s “envelope poems”. It’s just beautiful and such an intimate little glimpse, it kind of makes me giddy.
I’ve been working on Iain’s quilt whenever he’s out of the house. It’s absolutely exhausting. How pathetic that I find something a simple as sewing exhausting! It’s not exactly something one thinks of as strenuous. But there you have it. Exhausting, but satisfying.
The plan for it was very simple, uniform, and symmetrical. And following that plan I very rapidly depleted my fabric stores. Which is when I switched to using every little scrap in anyway I could. I’ve since moved on to quilting it completely at random. There is no method to the madness. I have absolutely no idea how it’s going to turn out. After all this work it could be completely hideous. Or not. It’s a mystery. The whole of it is deep winter; frost covered trees, glittering stars set in the deepest of dark blues, snow and owls like the one that haunts our compost pile when the snow lays thick all about.
After what was frankly a terrible morning, full of strife and family discord, I was in for extensive blood work (again) tonight. It was kind of a monstrous affair with 14 vials needing to be filled and them not being able to find a vein (seriously, the technician kissed my arm in relief when after much jabbing she finally found one she could use on the second side). As I sat in the waiting room knitting, a little girl went in for her tests, and I listened to her cry thinking how glad I was that I was the one in for testing this time and not one of my children. A smiling older woman struck up a conversation with me. That on it’s own was so pleasant and friendly in a room full of disgruntled looking people staring at their phones. The arthritis in her hands made it so that she can no longer knit. It was her father’s birthday as well as mine, though her father had long since passed. She had four children of her own, though she had lost a grown son to cancer 6 months prior. And here our conversation was cut short.
I came home woozy and shaking with both arms bruised, but keenly feeling my blessings. I called and wished my father a happy birthday this morning. I worked a bit on knitting little gifts, something that feels so connected to the very essence of who I am. I’ve hugged each of my children today, many, many times for some and no one has prodded them with needles or anything else. Back at home the children bustled about, making dinner so that I could rest and concentrate on caring for the little one who was missing me. She kept laying her whole self on top of me and snuggling in tight. It’s been a very good day.