So like all carefully plotted and planned ventures, my latest knitting project blew up.
My rebellious circular needle gave up the ghost and gathered much of my stitchery to its shattered bosom before it did so.
And here a McGyver solution on the brazen suicidal needle loop.
And finally, after a few intense hours, a triumphant photo of the restored work.
My local knitting supply shop were so fantastic and as soon as my car pulled up out shot an employee with my blessed silvery brand new needle. Note to self: always have a back up needle for a project..
All the above inspired me to write this:
At times like these
Uncertain, unfinished, unknown
The ancestors sit on my shoulders
And say, over and over again
As if I’m still three
“What are you afraid of, girl?
And then I take this sliver of time
And roll it around in my hands
And stare at it, at all the colours of it,
Mutating, twisting, transforming,
And say back to them, the wise dead ones,
“Afraid? Me? No!
Look at the colours of now!
Aren’t they beautiful?”