Letter

I'm writting...

When the earth thawed I came to sit on the mound.

Thick grass carpet sprawled beneath me, soft and squishy and hugging the densly packed ground. It stood in the full sun, far away from the sea, just to the left of the middle of the gorge, beautifuly warm and inviting.

I sat on it and enjoyed the warmth with the soft sun streching across the plain and I listened to the trickle of water over the stones. Heart was fluttering in my chest like a trapped bird but I breathed deeply and drank from my sack and waited for my brain to stop burning the inside of my skull. Last time I was here I sang, with my voice amplifyed by the cliffs into a blinding crescendo of effort and sound,.. blinding crescendo to blind me to the work in front of me.

MOCP Day 9 - Your Hands

My hands.

They are a bit over-lighted here, but my hands really are like a membrane stretched over a drum. They're criss-crossed with gazillion lines but all lines disappear if I harden and spread my fingers. And they always sparkle, even when they are really dry, just like there are tiniest sequins just under the skin.

I had to teach myself to hold yarn differently this summer.

I used to hold yarn entirely with my left index finger, pulling it through cramped nook under middle knuckle. It worked well for winter yarns, but it was un-plying cotton threads. And my right, working hand, hurt from all the effort I shoveled into knitting trying not to un-ply cotton.

So one day I decided to break the habit so I forced myself to hold yarn differently.

I was slow.

My stitches were uneven.

I frogged as much as I knitted.

I made some really winky and loopy objects but after a month my hands stopped hurting and my stitches are now much more beautiful than before. Same tension on knit and purl side. No noticeable uneven rows between putting down knitting and taking it up again the next day.

To reign over myself - it fills me with such pride.



See other Month of Craft Photos in this flickr pool.

Letter

I'm writing...

There is snow outside and my nook is warm and fragrant. Using wattles and clay I enclosed my cave, arranged fireplace in such way that the smoke would not accumulate indoors, using driftwood I set up tiles and shelves for crops. A gaze of my hoard fills me with bliss. Cauldron gently squeals hanging over the fireplace, porridge with herbs smells divine.

I was busy.

I kept myself busy so I wouldn't think. About you. But it is not working any more.