Saturday, February 16, 2013

under sea and snow

It's the middle of February. I don't like this month very much. It's when winter starts to really bear down on top of me. And I am desperate to see some green leaves. At work, I daydream of lying in a grassy field. I miss tee-shirts and not having to wear long underwear. I want to sit on my front porch with a coffee and read a book for a while.

Last night was another technology-free night for Eric and I. We do it once a week. It does a person good to unplug for a while. I gave him a haircut for the first time, with mediocre results. We had a picnic of bread, cheese, sausage and olives. We drank a bottle of wine and played Trivial Pursuit. Then we went to bed and I read aloud to him Rachel Carson's essay, "Undersea" from the book of her posthumously discovered writings, Lost Woods. It was too beautiful not to read out loud. 

I've felt lately like making things. Considering art. Remembering sewing. The afghan I started in the fall and never returned to. Building things with wood. Scavenging things to be repurposed, renewed. Eric says there's solid oak from an old church pew lying in a pile of scrap wood in the shop. We've been talking about buying canvasses and paint. He and I could do so many things.

I guess I could start by taking in the Christmas lights in from the porch.


  1. Tim needs a haircut too.

    Making things can be so hard. Today I have to rip out approximately 7 solid hours of knitting.

  2. Noooo! That's the WORST. Is it Tim's sweater?

    Once, I was at my parents' and I had to take out basically half an afghan. So I'm sitting on the couch next to my mom, and I'm pulling out the stitches while she balls the wool, and she looks at me all nostalgic and teary-eyed and says, "Oh! I've missed unravelling your crocheting with you." Like the part about my crocheting all the years I lived in their house that she remembers the most is the part where I rip the whole thing out all the time.