Meh. The days are growing shorter and the sky is relentlessly full of dreariness. Wind and rain. I have yet to find the perfect climate in all my travels. It's either too hot, too cold, too humid, too windy, too snowy, too something. It's maddening. As much as I would like to be the outdoorsy-type, the weather holds me back in one way or another. I want to live somewhere that maintains a delightful room temperature feel, where the skies are always blue and smiling and there is never any snow. Alas, nature mocks my desires. For now, I'll just stay inside, thanks.
So about that sweater I'm knitting. It is 14 rounds to being finished. You know how much I knitted this last week? 6 rounds. That's it. And it's terribly pathetic. After I put my son to sleep I spend time with my husband, catch up on housework or watch a good show... but my knitting sits scrunched up in a basket unconvincingly beckoning to me. I've been knitting the same part of the sleeve for two weeks now and have made an inch of progress at the most. It makes me sad, but then I remember that I'm not knitting because I'm taking care of my home, my family and spending time with the people that supersede my crafty endeavors. Plus, I might just be a tad apprehensive to cast off because then I'd have to actually begin my next project(s) and maybe I'm not ready yet. Maybe I'm just now coming to terms with the fact that I can no longer knit 8 hours a day when I feel like it. Sometimes, I can't even squeeze in 14 rounds a week. I'm a mom to an infant. That's the reality.
Lately I've replaced my late-night knitting time with a book before bed. I forgot the feeling of simple pleasure that I find in reading. I've been up to my elbows in The Prince of Tides for the last week, turning page after page of family drama and clashing cultures. I can relate to much of what is written, though not to the word, my history is formed out of many events - as in the book, some of which are heart-crushingly painful to remember. The only downfalls of my reading this past week have been firstly staying up too late reading and paying for it in the morning and the absolute ridiculous wordiness of the novel at times. I consider myself well read to a degree. Granted, I haven't read all the classics, but in my 25 years I have put back a decent amount of books and millions of written words. There are words in this book that make me go cross-eyed with confusion. Were I more ambitious as I was back in school, I might actually write down and dictionary reference the words I'm unfamiliar with, but I'm really not feeling up to it because I just want to enjoy the story.
So about that sweater I'm knitting. It is 14 rounds to being finished. You know how much I knitted this last week? 6 rounds. That's it. And it's terribly pathetic. After I put my son to sleep I spend time with my husband, catch up on housework or watch a good show... but my knitting sits scrunched up in a basket unconvincingly beckoning to me. I've been knitting the same part of the sleeve for two weeks now and have made an inch of progress at the most. It makes me sad, but then I remember that I'm not knitting because I'm taking care of my home, my family and spending time with the people that supersede my crafty endeavors. Plus, I might just be a tad apprehensive to cast off because then I'd have to actually begin my next project(s) and maybe I'm not ready yet. Maybe I'm just now coming to terms with the fact that I can no longer knit 8 hours a day when I feel like it. Sometimes, I can't even squeeze in 14 rounds a week. I'm a mom to an infant. That's the reality.
Lately I've replaced my late-night knitting time with a book before bed. I forgot the feeling of simple pleasure that I find in reading. I've been up to my elbows in The Prince of Tides for the last week, turning page after page of family drama and clashing cultures. I can relate to much of what is written, though not to the word, my history is formed out of many events - as in the book, some of which are heart-crushingly painful to remember. The only downfalls of my reading this past week have been firstly staying up too late reading and paying for it in the morning and the absolute ridiculous wordiness of the novel at times. I consider myself well read to a degree. Granted, I haven't read all the classics, but in my 25 years I have put back a decent amount of books and millions of written words. There are words in this book that make me go cross-eyed with confusion. Were I more ambitious as I was back in school, I might actually write down and dictionary reference the words I'm unfamiliar with, but I'm really not feeling up to it because I just want to enjoy the story.
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