If life is a journey I’d like to write the travel log!
Honestly, sometimes when I am doing something I hear the story line running in my head.
Stepping out of her car in the searing heat she limps slowly across the parking lot. Heading for the air-conditioned Mecca, only twenty feet away, but like an oasis in the desert, shimmering ephemerally, never seeming to come any closer.
And then, once I am inside.
The refrigerated air revives her and she goes straight to the aisle where the yarn lies, bins of it, soft and wooly, lying snuggled up together like sleeping bunnies in tiny square hutches. Magical bunnies in all the hues of the rainbow, just waiting to be chosen, lying there twitching invisible noses and tweaking hidden tails, hoping they will be the ones to go home.
I reach down and pull one of the skeins out of its nest and it is perfect. Exactly the colors I want and precisely the softness I need to create the magical scarf I will knit tonight.
One stitch at a time, fifty stitches per row, hundreds of rows, a scarf is a labor of love. It is a perfect manifestation of good thoughts and warm feelings infused into loop after loop until the finished product can be worn.
A talisman of exquisite charms, more powerful than Superman’s cape, more magical than Spidey’s fingers, guaranteed to keep its wearer warm from the inside out.
And then I think that perhaps this is a travel log only I can really enjoy.
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