There are so many joys in life.
(Who ever bothers to count them all?)
I have a hank of greyish-white Icelandic handspun on my table. I take it out, periodically, once a week, unwind it, drape it around and around my neck. One-hundred-something yards.
I think yarn is the highest form of wool. Knitting always seems to degrade the yarn. Yarn is potential. Knitting is – well, it is what it is. There are only so many ways to wear a sweater.
A skein of yarn, on the other hand, is a sweater and a pair of socks and a scarf and a stocking cap all at once.
My fiber is always crying out to be spun up, audibly. Re-incarnation, to the next life form.
I’ve never heard anyone say, “I was a sheep in a former life.” It’s always, “I was a hero.” What’s so un-heroic about a sheep?
The temperature is dropping. Sometimes I wish I was a sheep. I’d be warm. Maybe.
I’m knitting a wool sweater instead.
(I really ought to take some photos.) For now, sheep from the internet.
What are you wearing/making to brave the polar bear vortex?