Wednesday, April 15, 2009

NESTING

Midnight Garden rocks

I am profoundly happy to be home after five months of travel. As tempting as it is to wow you with the allures of faraway climes, these days I'm too in love with my own back forty to bother. You won't find me mentioning foreign lands for a few posts as I settle into by own beloved nest. I have yarn to knit and books to write. At the end of the day, I sink into my own bathtub, wake up in my own bed and drink plain tea of the ordinary, non-mint, variety.  My days are so serene, in fact, they may as well come with a yawn. In other words, I am content. 

And I need this. For the past few months, I've felt as if parts of myself have been dissipated by the pure speed with which I've traveled. Planes, cars, buses. More planes. Today, I'm measuring joy by hearing the birds sing in the trees outside my door and in all the quiet pleasures which ground daily life. I am reminded that happiness is usually not measured in grand events but by the quiet peace of tiny joys strung together across the fabric of our lives. 

I am happy when I create.

These photos are of the Midnight Garden Sweater I knit over twenty years ago where William Morris-inspired strawberry thief birds flit amid silken leaves and berries on a field of dark purple wool. I once kept these sweaters buried deep in a dark closet thinking them relics of youthful passion and enthusiasm best tucked away lest they cause a pang of remorse. Now my enthusiasm and passion are home again while I've finally realized that youth has nothing to do with either.

Besides, remorse is for the birds.