This is the last day of my spring holidays, which I purposely chose to spend spring cleaning, knitting, reading and just being still and thinking.
I have seen very few people this week. I haven’t gone out shopping, haven’t gone to get my hair cut. I haven’t gone to the gym at all, and have eaten absolutely what I want, when I want. I have slept in and stayed up late when it suited me. I went out to Easter dinner at my future in-laws’, which was very nice indeed, but aside from that – people? Not so much.
I spent a lot of time cleaning out closets, sifting through things. Amazing how much stuff has accumulated in the five short years I’ve been here in the townhouse. I did a big purge when I sold my house on Bolivar Street. I’m doing one again. I’ve been through closets and drawers and cupboards. Much of it isn’t my own stuff, so I’ve had to to use my judgment as to what the boys might want to keep, important sentimental items, and things still useful, and what is just discarded, detritus, the miscellaneous flotsam and jetsam of their childhoods. It has, as I knew it would, made me nostalgic, melancholy and somewhat moody. Better left alone. On that note, I have yet to attack the basement and my younger son’s room. Too much, too soon, too overwhelming. I may need help with that, help both physical and emotional.
I’ve made huge inroads on a knitted crazy blanket. Freeform, organic, creative knitting is what I like best: some parts puckered and imperfect, patches of beauty, scraps of this and that, too small to stand on their own, all knit together into a useful and coherent whole. This, I have discovered, is my favourite part of fibre craft, of spinning and knitting up handfuls of fluff into things of use. Manipulation of matter, which is neither created nor destroyed, but simply changes form. I don’t know who said that, but it’s a universal truth.
From dust we came.