You see, there's something been happening lately that I haven't admitted to you folks. In fact, I've had a hard time admitting it to myself. Recently I had to face up to a disturbing fact: I'd lost interest in knitting.
|These meant nothing to me.|
It all started 2 weeks ago, when I worked up the nerve to confront an uncompleted lace shawl project that had been haunting me. Realizing that it held no interest for me anymore, I frogged it (meaning, I pulled it all out, for those of you who aren't hep with the knitting lingo). Ah, I thought, that'll do the trick. That unwanted project was blocking my creativity. Now I'll go find something I WANT to knit.
|Was this what was in store for me?|
So I ignored my yarn. I know! It's a weird way to live. I read all my birthday books (6 in one week). I felt strangely content with my new post-knitting life. Maybe that whole knitting thing had just been a phase, a fluke, I thought. It's sort of a relief, actually. No more cruising yarn shops; no more wasting hours of my life on Ravelry, looking for the perfect market bag pattern...
But, Reader, I'm happy to report that, on that train ride to my Dad's, the magic returned. I knitted contentedly all the way there. I knitted while I was trying to cope with the voodoo priestess. I knitted on the way back, glad I had something to do other than watch soaps on an IPad, as my seatmate was doing. The handwork was comforting, like a homecoming. And, truth to tell, I was relieved to find myself back in the knitting saddle, as it were -- because I really didn't want to try that bungee jumping.
[Yarn image: Living Large With Less]
[Bungee image: Spirit of the Himalayas]