We’re having a spell of gorgeousness, full of filtered sun and frizzy clouds and extra blankets at night. I love summer, but sometimes it does leave me gasping for breath, both in the heat and in the utter frantic craziness of it all. I am trying hard to fully appreciate my fantastic luck in having all my adult children under my roof for the summer, before they all pack up and go off to their own lives, so there are many late evenings full of noshing and chatter and me all dark gray and sleepy the next day. My house is alive with light all night long, and it won’t last, and I am relishing it.
All the knitting looks the same as it did the last time you saw it. I make incremental headway on everything, and it grows gradually—a couple scarves, a shawl, two blankets, two sweaters, more pairs of socks than I can recall. Slow, slow, in blessed contrast to the rest of the hubbub around here. I’m thinking of the knitting kind of medicinally these days. The pile of pieced quilt top things is slightly taller; the peace I get from sewing little squares of fabric together by hand cannot be overstated. Just, yeah. It’s like a long, deep sigh. I have read good books lately, and eaten raspberries and fresh eggs. I have napped in the sun. My beautiful daughter appeared onstage in a summer opera, and I busted open with pride and joy. And the little orchid is still blooming, which is heroic and incredible. That’s what you call worth the wait.