Some things I do: I fold my socks and line them up horizontally in a drawer, so I can see each pair. I keep one bathroom spotless, while the other one looks like raccoons live in there. I make my bed first thing every morning, and throw my pajamas on the floor. I think of you on your birthday, but forget to send a card. I write short but effusive poetry about peonies. I make friends with spiders, and I give them unimpeded access to the house, unless they are too big and then I can't do it. I remember to change the hand towels. I walk up to any lilac and stick my face right in the blossoms, breathing in deeply.
Some things I don't do: I don't shampoo my hair. I don't let anybody else drive my car. I don't eat meat or cheese or oil or salt or sugar or eggs, unless there's birthday cake or pulled pork, and then I will elbow you out of the way to get it. I don't garden, and I don't like to cook. I don't say mean things to people, even if they have it coming. I don't change lanes without signaling. I don't go to church. I don't believe in ghosts. I don't practice yoga, even though it makes me feel wonderful.
If you eat as much spinach and as many blueberries as I do, then it's good we don't live in the same town, because the grocery store could not keep up with both of us. I eat beans right out of the can like a Steinbeck vagabond. I eat an apple every day, because why wouldn't you do that? Apples are everything. I love all candy except I hate being surprised by coconut when I'm expecting caramel.
Is it possible to not really like music? I don't think I really like it, or at least I'd mostly rather have it quiet. I've had "Killer Queen" which happens to be an awesome song, stuck in my head since Thanksgiving, and I'm starting to get tired of it. I love the sound of the wind in the leaves at night, outside my window, which reminds me of summer at the lake. I like birdsongs and waves lapping. I like the sound of the tumble dryer, working away while I'm sitting in a chair with my feet up.
I like wool. No, I love it. I love wool. I love how it is coiled possibility. I feel it waiting for me in the cupboard, waiting its turn, waiting for me to think of something pink that wants to be knit, and worn. I wear wool all year. I wear it when everyone around me is sweltering. It is my armor. I could write rapturous verses about wool. Maybe I will.
I love this dog. I crawl on the floor for her. We have breakfast together, on the fuzzy rug in front of the fireplace, her feet on the grate, her nose against my foot. She builds a fort out of pillows, crawls underneath it, and does not want to be disturbed. She will be six this summer, and I think of that with a shake of my head, like I shook it when my kids were about to be six and could not imagine where the time had gone. Didn't she just come to live with Doc and me the other day? I feel myself getting older.
Every day, I make things, because I don't know how to live any other way. When I started writing this blog, I sewed and embroidered and crocheted and made things out of paper, and there were lampshades and beaded bracelets and tutorials and patterns. There were stories [remember when I put a whole cabbage down the garbage disposal and broke the kitchen? Remember when we heard a rustling in the bushes and thought it was a bear and ran shrieking for the safety of the house? Remember when I, against all recommendations, put a quart zip-top bag of soup in my purse?] because my babies were still at home and we did things. I am fifty-one now, and as you know, my ducklings have successfully fledged and are living their own beautiful lives full of their own hilarious disasters, and my life has become very quiet, pared down, and filled mostly with the soothing same-ness of knitting. There is really no more room for quilts or pincushions or potholders or painted picture frames. I say this to let you know that I'm retiring from this space with all the love and gratitude in the world for you all, who have been here with me, reading and laughing along. I will still be making things. Catdog will still be curled up underneath the pillows. There will ever be hand stitching and the clicking of my needles in the still mornings on my porch. Thank you all, so much. Thank you. See you around. xoxo
[In a few days, I will be turning off the comments. Please know that you can find and follow me on Instagram--I am @cozymadethings--and I still hope to hear from you in email and to meet you at festivals. Look for Doc in his kilt, and I am surely nearby. ~Love, Kristen]