I have come to realize that I approach knitting the same way I approach my life - only loosely configured around the pattern, full-steam ahead, almost always with mistakes at the start. I then consider the mistakes good learning experiences, but don't fix them. In knitting, it's usually too far to go back; in life it's too late.
I'm finding more and more people on the road who seem to be navigating through short bursts of consciousness -- "OH, right. I'm driving a car!" No doubt texting. That's when I realize how different I am from a, say, 20 y/o. If I were to text while driving I would a) have to find my glasses; b) slip my iPhone out of its knitted case; c) try to only hit one key with my fat finger; d) you get the picture. It's not happening. As my friend, Marty, used to say -- "I may be nuts, but I'm not crazy."
Roadside monuments that commemorate the sites where loved ones have lost their lives, tend to say so much about the person. Kay's is so beautiful, I can't stop yet, as it makes me cry when I see it. Then there are the young men whose monuments show tattooed visages, draped with beer cans and notes. I don't know that it's a great idea to memorialize death by drunk driving. The utility truck driver who lost his life at the bottom of the mountain near me has a large, hand-made wooden cross with his name burned into it. It is not temporary - it's an installation. He must have been a pretty great guy.
The older I get, the less interested I am in rekindling links with distant relatives (distant in both the figurative and literal sense). This could have something to do with the fact that their visits are usually on weekends, which, as most of you will agree, are sacred. I am so far behind, I can see myself coming and going. It's getting to the point where the only reason I would leave the homestead on a Saturday/Sunday is if Raul Julia came back just to see me. Hubba hubba. I believe I'm safe there.
I'm having a terrible time making up my mind about the goats. I do NOT want four goats. I will gladly usher Sage to a new home (bon voyage and good luck - don't let the barn door hit you in the ass on the way out). I was going to include Willo in the package, leaving a more manageable number of two - Uncle Chickie and Apple. But then, yesterday morning, I went out to feed everyone and there were Willo and Apple, lying side by side, their tiny mouths working their tiny cuds. So, now I'm back to just Sage hitting the exit door.
This year I am fussing with my garden much more than any previous year. And I'm not sure why. I circle it every morning and every evening, plucking weeds, giving encouragement to the potatoes and squash. Cursing the chipmunks and the slugs (which I think are responsible for my sweet potato damage). I feel that my garden is more important than it ever was before. It helps me focus and makes me happy when I see things growing (could it be any more of a miracle - the amount of biomass in one tiny seed?) I love my garden.