Darling, beautiful, gorgeous May. I sit beside the open window, breathing lilac. Songbirds trill. Even my neighbor's lawnmower is evoking happy, nostalgic reveries of pastoral life. Summer! How I love you. There is the giant crochet granny, slowly growing (though I am, as always, torn between putting a few rounds on it and dropping everything to read this book.)
It grows, I swear. It's one of those things that is fully about the process, because probably in the end I will just fold it neatly and put it on a shelf. Maybe not. Maybe I will paint one room completely white and take everything out of it except the perfectly-beat-up thrift store bed, a stack of books. I'll hang one perfect piece of vintage art slightly off-center on an otherwise empty wall, and then I'll throw this blanket artfully across the rumpled white linens. Maybe a plant. Goals. Meanwhile, I just really do love to crochet, and I really do love to choose the next color; something about that is so satisfying. Watching the colors pile up next to each other is a thrill, every time.
I finally swapped out the (beautiful but waaaay tooooo looooong) turned wooden needles that are such a joy to look at and to dream of using but which are annoying in the extreme for this much more efficient slippery circular needle, and now this project is finally clipping along at a decent pace. Using the right tools for a project makes all the difference in the world. Knit? Crochet? Read? I can't decide. I also want to sew, embroider, paint, spin, bake a pie, hook a rug from wool I dyed myself using plants from the garden, learn to make wine, write a novel. Etc.