I've had a knit and a good sleep. I ate a nutritious, not fat-filled, breakfast. Next I'm going to get my nails done. What? They're too long and make mistakes when I type, so it's important to have them just right. Then I'll be back to this corner to continue working on my article. I must be getting to be a grownup because I didn't make myself crazy trying to write yesterday, instead I acknowledged my writing process and honored it. Now it better damn well pay me back for the consideration by being there when I ask it to perform in about an hour, that's all I've got to say.
May 28--Skye, Scotland. "Look, sweaters," Lyn said pointing out the window of the tour bus. Every head in every seat swiveled to look at the white scraps of sheep visible high up on the green hills of the Isle of Skye. This day was the one they had all been looking forward to, the day when they got to see the production of yarn from sheep shearing through carding, spinning, plying, and dyeing, to the actual knitting. Not that the seven women were unfamiliar with yarn and knitting. Far from it. All seven pairs of hands were even now busy with sticks and string, busy churning out another sock, hat, or glove. Despite the forty year spread in their ages, or maybe because of it, these women had laughed together, cried together, and held each other up through good times and bad. This trip to Scotland's Isle of Skye was their reward to themselves for all their years of friendship and the hobby that bound them so tightly together.
Last night at Friday Night Knitting Circle Em said that I should write a book, "a better book about knitting," than the one we've all read. She spent a half hour rolling out her reasons, making character-istic lists and urging me to get writing. I smiled and kept my mouth shut (I think that it'd be too copy-cat) but, lo and behold, there were sheep in last night's prompt picture, so I thought I'd take the plunge, at least for a paragraph or two. Here you go, Em.