1. This is accurate:
2. This is hilarious (sound on, via my friend who finds all the best things):
I went roller skating last week for the first time in about 30 years. Not two days later, I’d told Doc I wanted a pair of skates for my birthday and that I wanted my birthday present early. I’ve found roller skate Instagram (with instructional videos!) and a whole YouTube channel with how-to’s:
My skates should get here tomorrow so I’m getting ready to practice my superskater and my bubbles. (I knew there was a reason we hadn’t finished the basement yet.)
A friend sent me this Joy Harjo poem yesterday and “Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.” is just…ineffable. Good stuff.
Perhaps the World Ends Here
by Joy Harjo
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.
(from The Woman Who Fell From the Sky, 1994)
I cast on for a sweater in October but it has more refined techniques than I’m used to–I had to learn the tubular cast on and was working on doing German short rows along with the dreaded “at the same time” increasing on both knit and purl sides and…it was just too much for my work-fried brain.
So I made a super-easy hat with leftover yarn from my last chunky sweater.
This was a free pattern from Purl Soho and it took about a week. It was perfectly mindless and gave an excuse to buy a giant faux-fur pom from JoAnn (always a plus). It also got me hooked on big chunky yarn again: I bought more to make another sweater from Good Night, Day and that one is flying off the needles.
Having a week off was SO GREAT: We went on a Black Friday hike and a Sunday hike, I sewed elaborately ruffled things, we watched movie trilogies and I knitted, we had a mellow Thanksgiving and put up the Christmas tree, and we took my nephew ROLLER SKATING (finally! and I didn’t fall down).
I have the week of Christmas off, as well–can’t wait for MORE VACATION.
1. I have next week ENTIRELY OFF, which is my first real break in three months of being the only writer at work. Lisa Congden posted this last week and I can relate:
“I’m trying to keep my heart alive,” Silverblatt continues. “I’m trying to keep my joy alive. And if I stand up and roar, I’m trying to keep my soul alive… That’s what we have all done, when we get to do what we want to do with our lives: We keep our joy, we keep our hearts, we keep our soul.”
4. I won’t be posting next week, to have a real break and to give myself a little space. This will be the first Thanksgiving without Mom; I can stockpile all the pretty projects I want but there will still be hard moments. “Breathe deep and let November be November.” Happy Thanksgiving, friends.
Lisa Congden quoted part of this on her Instagram yesterday so I had to look the whole thing up. “Looking out for sorrow,/slowing down for happiness,/making all the right turns”–Mary Oliver is just the best
by Mary Oliver
When we are driving in the dark,
on the long road to Provincetown,
when we are weary,
when the buildings and the scrub pines lose their familiar look,
I imagine us rising from the speeding car.
I imagine us seeing everything from another place–
the top of one of the pale dunes, or the deep and nameless
fields of the sea.
And what we see is a world that cannot cherish us,
but which we cherish.
And what we see is our life moving like that
along the dark edges of everything,
headlights sweeping the blackness,
believing in a thousand fragile and unprovable things.
Looking out for sorrow,
slowing down for happiness,
making all the right turns
right down to the thumping barriers to the sea,
the swirling waves,
the narrow streets, the houses,
the past, the future,
the doorway that belongs
to you and me.
The Atlantic—with a lovely new brand refresh–has an essay by Tom Junod about his friendship with Fred Rogers. He talks about his essay inspiring the movie A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood and what Mr. Rogers would make of society today. It’s just..nice; thoughtful and sad and but still hopeful.
This was my favorite memory he shared about Fred:
I’ve had a pair of cold-weather hiking tights on my list to make since I figured out I could make my own active wear in the spring. I placed a big order from The Fabric Fairy in July and included a cut of fleece-backed Polartec PowerStretch and sewed it up this past weekend.
These are the Super G Tights again (this is pair #10, if you count a couple test pairs?) and I decided to go for a TNT (tried and true) pattern even though I had my doubts about those layered pockets and the thickness of the fleece. To mitigate the layers I’d have to sew through, I lined the waistband and the pockets in some plain Lycra:
My serger did ok, though, and my Bernina didn’t even blink (god I love that machine). And these are so cozy with the fleece inside. I think I’ll need another layer over them when we get to deep winter but for now, they’re just right.