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Summer Reading

I'm back from my summer travels and it is wonderful to be home even though once again I am struggling to get back into a routine. Traveling was wonderful and much time was spent with family and friends. If less time than anticipated was spent knitting and reading, it is not such a bad thing. A summer sweater remains unfinished, but there is ample time on the horizon for solitary knitting. There was also little time for summer reading. Yet, between meals and conversations, walks, visits, swims, and time spent with family culminating in my brother's wedding, a few books were completed.

I finally got around to reading Tish Jett's Forever Chic in early July while in Mohonk. It seemed like a light read, a soothing balm at the end of the day, and it lived up to its promise. The book is well written and personal; reading it is much like settling in for a cup of coffee and conversation with a friend. Yes it does include information on rather expensive cosmetic procedures and products, but also much practical advice about common-sense approaches and the importance of a lifetime of care and attention to face, body and mind. Yes Frenchwomen do exercise, and yes they do watch what they eat, but the emphasis here is different than the standard American approach, at least the one I grew up with. Unlike many books it does not read as a bible of specific instructions, with the author repeatedly reminding us that each of us will find different solutions while recommending an informed approach. I was also thrilled that the author points out that beauty, charm, and allure come not only from the surface, although this should not be ignored, but from within, noting that the French women of whom she writes are also interested, engaged, and informed about the world, and that this active engagement in the world and that this very engagement forms an important part of their allure. This is refreshingly different from the beauty or intelligence dichotomy that still seems to plague parts of American culture.

On the last day of our Mohonk visit, my step-son Adam, gave me a book he had just finished, Tom Clancy's Command Authority, and I started reading it at the hotel that very evening, after a rather stressful day of driving, and I found it to be an enjoyable read. Clancy was a great storyteller and this book is no exception. I am not a critical-enough reader of Clancy's oevre to discuss whether this book is better or worse than his earlier novels, or the differences in approach, being more interested simply in whether or not the book was enjoyable, Indeed it was. Yes it is heavy on political and military minutia, as is the case in many of the Jack Ryan novels, and many readers may not have the patience for this. Yes the involvement of Jack Sr. and Jack Jr. seems implausible at times, but then the entire Jack Ryan package is extremely implausible. We don't look for everyman in our superheroes though, and Jack Ryan is an American superhero. The book was engaging enough, and driving enough that it was difficult to put down, proving to be an entertaining and satisfying read.

Next up, a book that had been on my towering "to read" stack for a few years now, Eric Metaxas' Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy, which I started without realizing that a theme was developing: the idolization of men as unambiguous ideolized superheroes. And herein lies the problem; it is not that Dietrich Bonhoeffer was not a hero, a martyr, a man of deep conviction and profound courage and faith, a man whose faith carried him further than most people are willing to go in terms of standing up for truth. He was all of that and more. The problem is that Metaxas paints a rather simplified and one-sided portrait of Bonhoeffer as a hero for the elites and although it is true that Dietrich Bonhoeffer did come from an elite background, the book plays this up consistently and to great effect. Bonhoeffer is the hero of the educated, the hero of the upper classes fighting against the uneducated, the rude, and the crude. This is a biography turned into a morality tale. Metaxas also grossly oversimplifies Bonhoeffer's theology and his development as a theologian, relying heavily on Bonhoeffer's writings as a young student and as well as some late writings, neatly avoiding any indications of development and inner struggle. Of course, one would note that Theologian, is not a part of the title of the book, so it would make sense that this is no biography of Bonhoeffer as a theologian.

Now, given this litany of complaints, one might think that this is a bad book. It is not, although I would deem it rather average. It is mostly well written, with a mostly engaging style. It is however defnitely limited. If the book introduces Bonhoeffer to those who knew nothing of him, it has yielded something good. If some of those readers go on to read Bonhoeffer's actual writings and learn more of the man and his theology it might even be deemed a success. It has certainly made me want to reread Bonhoeffer, with the result that, rather than reducing the size of the old "to read" pile, this book actually served to increase it.

Then, without conscious intention, another book from the pile popped up, The Secret Race by Tyler Hamilton and Daniel Coyle, or a book that could be described as the a study of the hero as everyman. This book was good. The story was well told and engaging. Yes it is a particular story, Tyler's story, and he comes across as likeable and understandable. It seemed, however that he made points that we should all consider, the old, well-worn mantra of "What would you do in the same situation?" Yes he doped. Yes he claims everyone did it, and given the statistics it seems he was correct. But several other points come out. Even though everyone doped, or almost everyone at least among the elite riders, those at the top, some still managed to do better than others, it took more than doping to achieve success. Some were more honest (relatively) than others, some were not. And the big question remains, the "what would you do". For the truth is that we are, for the most part, all Tyler Hamiltons. We all want to succeed, to be liked, to be in the cool crowd. We all tell ourselves little stories and little white lies to cover our less than laudable choices. Most of us are like the German elites who simply hoped that Hitler would go away. Most of us are like Tyler Hamilton and the other riders who took dope because they just wanted a chance to succeed, to show what they could do, and who believed they had no other choice, even if that belief was wrong. Most of us are not like Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Luckily most of us are not like Lance Armstrong either. It is true that he does not come out well in this book; it is not his book after all. At the same time, from an observer's standpoint, Hamilton never came across as particularly likable during the period of his Tour de France wins. But we don't always expect our heroes to be likeable and we sometimes confuse arrogance and confidence. In many ways Armstrong was and is a prisoner of his own success, his need to win. As Hamilton points out, winning goes to your head. It can make you think you are better than everyone else; it can make you forget that reality is much more fragile. This is a engaging, touching and humanizing book, a reminder of the tentative nature of our own humanity, as a reminder of the toll our yearning for superheros really takes, both on those we idolize and ourselves.

August 7, 2014
A Visit to Mohonk Mountain House

When we gathered together in the Hudson Valley to scatter George's ashes in the Hudson, I wanted us to stay someplace condusive to family activities, yet also with enough to offer that we could all find pleasant ways to while away hours, both individually and together. To this end, we stayed at Mohonk Mountain House.

In many ways it was the perfect choice. George's mother had gone to Mohonk. When his children were small, George would occasionally fill-in for a colleague as the in-house weekend doctor and his family would spend the weekend at Mohonk. Even though George and I had never stayed as guests, I knew the grounds were beautiful we had been there many times. As a testament to the power of memory, even though Mohonk has been updated and renovated, George's son's first comment to me upon arrival was "It smells just as I remember it from childhood".

Our rooms were in one of the oldest parts of the hotel. My room was not large, but was bright, clean and charming, neither too old-fashioned, nor too blandly modern.

The view from my balcony was fabulous. But as I wandered the hotel and the grounds it was hard not to concede that the view is probably gorgeous in all directions. The hotel has been beautifully maintained and beautifully decorated, in a way that maintains ties to its history without being overly fussy or overdone, with a nod to the past, but also fully accommodating itself to the present.

Walking down the hall toward my room, another row of balconies. These face the sunset.

The view from the large sunset porch.

There were beautiful gardens, also beautifully maintained, a kids activity center, and trails for hikers and nature lovers of every interest and ambition. I stuck to the simple and well manicured paths. The gardens were extensive and beautiful, but as usual I was too enraptured by being there to spend much time taking pictures.

I also walked around the lake, a simple trail, while others in the family ventured forth on steeper and more rocky climbs. I was perfectly content with small vistas and easy walks.

Even so I managed to log at least 5 miles every day we were there, a level of activity I've had to work at maintaining since I've returned to normal life.

Admittedly I still managed to sneak in a nap or two. The youngest member of our group was far more interested in feeding the fish.

Even the food was fabulous, at least the menu service was, although even I, the pickiest member of our little coterie, have to admit the buffet was excellent, for a buffet. Alas, I didn't take pictures of the food, I continue to be old fashioned-enough that I can't quite bring myself to cross that line.

Overall, it was a fabulous vacation, and I would happily go back if I had the opportunity to do so. It was relaxing and envigorating. Everyone was helpful and accommodating and the hospitality staff exceeded expectations in working with our group to plan special events and transportation to the dock in Beacon for the clearwater sail.

July 29, 2014
Settling In and Seeking a Sense of Routine

Oh so much time has passed and where have I been? Here and there; everywhere (not really) and nowhere. I've been home from the Hudson Valley for a week and have written nary a word, though not because I haven't had things to say. Hopefully they will come out one of these days.

But I have just been more normal and more settled into myself and, probably at least partly due to that sense of settling, I have resumed the tasks of organizing and nesting and finally abolishing piles and boxes and the general unsettledness that continued to haunt my home. At the same time, I have been making a concerted effort at establishing a routine, and sticking it with it. Unfortunately, much as I want writing this blog to be a part of that routine, and I know it will be, writing can also be a distraction. For example I have been sitting here, pondering what to write, rather than taking my evening walk.

I need to take my evening walk. I will feel better if I do. My trip neatly coincided with a resurgence of my energy and comfort levels, and I realized that I do need to make the effort to walk more. Of course it was easier when I was away, unburdened by obligations, accompanied by charming companions, not to mention beautiful mountain and garden trails. But I still need to walk. And although vacations are lovely, they upset the schedule, a schedule I had barely settled myself into before I went away, a schedule I am struggling to maintain before my next trip. The simple truth is that if I don't maintain a schedule I am not better off, because I am easily distracted and daydreamer. As stated above, I am much more settled into myself, and far less concerned about worrying over whether I live up to anyones expectations, but I also know that there are things that make my life easier. Routine, and the right balance between routine and flexibility, are an important part of maintaining equanimity.

And of course, part of that routine is making time to get out and just walk, or eventually to bike, to stretch, to move. I have trouble motivating myself to exercise, but once I get started I love the way it makes me feel. Even more than the movement itself, I love the feeling of energy and uplifted spirits, an almost boyant calmness, that follows movement. If recovery from surgery has taught me anything it is that no matter how tired I am, no matter how stiff or sore I am, movement is always better than non-movement. The amount of movement may be determined by pain or exhaustion, but even small amounts of movement help. Giving in to pain and slothfulness only begets more pain and slothfulness; movement lights up the body the way a smile lights up the soul.

I am posting photos of the small, under cared-for crape myrtle in my front yard because the blooms greeted me when I returned home from New York. Until this summer I didn't even know this tiny tree was a crape myrtle. The characteristic bark began to appear about the same time as the tiny flower buds.

I've wanted a crape myrtle since I moved into this house. I've been jealous every summer that everyone else had one and I didn't. Even the house built after mine has beautiful crape myrtles. Pehaps it is because they were planted later in the year, not in January. Perhaps their front planting beds aren't mere piles of clay like mine. For whatever reason, my crape myrtle was a slower starter. But being a slow starter is not such a bad thing in the long run. Like the blooms on my crape myrtle, my words will return as soon as as I get my roots a little more settled.

I'm not going to say I won't post while I am shifting and redoing and generally overdoing things. I'm not going to say I won't write while I am travelling. I merely expect that I may continue to be a bit erratic, but that, in time, I will settle in. Routine and words will return.

July 22, 2014
Farewell

Yesterday afternoon we scattered George's ashes in the Hudson River. It was a small but perfect group of family and close friends. Although I could not help hoist the Clearwater's main sail, which I had indeed done in the past, since I have not yet built up enough strength following my back surgery and it is hard work. George's children and several friends did help though, and he would have been proud. He of course, when he was able to do so, would have been pulling with the others.

We were blessed with the perfect day. Hot yes, but there was a breeze on the water, and the humidity, although present, was tolerable. But mostly the day was special because family and friends were together, here, in the Hudson Valley, on the river George so dearly loved. Although he hadn't sailed in years, he had loved to sail, loved boats, and particularly loved the Hudson River. In the earlier years of our marriage we had even taken a few public sails on the Clearwater, although most of our time together on the Hudson was spent in a canoe, and since George liked to be out on the water, not hugging the shore, more often than not we were rowing across the river and back. A flotilla of canoes did not really strike me as a suitable option however, and the Clearwater proved to be the perfect setting for launching George's remains to the water and land he so dearly loved.

I have to admit that when Owen and I released George's ashes into the breeze, watching them float in the air, catching the light and settling on the water, it was a beautiful moment. The past year has not always been easy, but we have reached a place from whence it is easier to move forward. Being on the water, on the boat, together, sharing memories, catching up, and looking forward to the future, was a good way to share and remember the many ways in which we have been shaped and touched by those we have lost, and how their influence continues to float in our spirits, always a part of us.

Photo of Clearwater from Clearwater.org.

Raising the sail.

My step-son, Adam, assisting with lowering the sail.

July 13, 2014
The Tracks of My Tears

I was surprised the other morning to find tears running down my face. I was not particularly sad or distressed. They were contented tears. I had simply been reading something that moved me. A few moments later I noticed that my blouse was wet, and was itself tear stained.

How wonderfully remarkable.

Once I was a woman who cried at everything. I cried when I was happy. I cried when I was sad. I cried at sappy movies, no matter how predictable. I cried when I heard beautiful music. And then I lost the ability to cry. In the past couple of months I have started crying again, tears of sadness and loss, tears of grief. But I hadn't quite gotten back to being that person who would let tears slip at the simplest of things, that person who could allow herself to be easily moved to tears, unbidden. Slowly the door I closed a few years ago, the door I closed because I needed to be strong, is becoming unstuck, and is beginning to open.

Once again my heart knows tears of joy.

July 10, 2014
Exploring the Fringes of Melancholy

The last couple of weeks have been a struggle in some ways although in other ways that same period was one of extraordinary gifts. It is this paradox that strikes me now, how I could feel myself struggling even as I experienced deep joy and appreciated the fortune of my life, even the recognition that it is the very nature of that sense of struggle, of floundering even in the currents and responsibilities of life, that allows those moments of joy to shine all the more brightly. I am sure that I will resolve nothing here in this post, resolution and understanding take time, often revealing themselves long after the spark which ignited them in the first place.

In fact, sometimes when one is feeling at odds with the world, those little things, those small joys, take on a sharper significance, and one can appreciate them all the more. Take a hibiscus blossom for example. The large showy flowers make me smile every time I see them, and I experience a tiny seed of disappointment on those few days between periods of bloom. But on a melancholy afternoon, a large yellow blossom is like a beacon of hope, with an impact far greater than its physical presence.

Not surprisingly, it all started with a bout of exhaustion. I run around all wrapped up in the world of doing, not wanting to miss anything. Yes, there is time to stop and notice the flowers, the blackberries, the joy of time spent with friends. But I really don't allow enough time to rest, not until my body just cries out "enough" and I am overwhelmed by exhaustion. Exhaustion does not, in and of itself, imply depression, and if it did this time, I was perhaps too eager to blame my ennui on my own self-perceived failings than on any real understanding of myself or the world. And therein lies the problem. It seems that it is too easy to both to blame myself for failings that aren't, in fact, failings at all, and to blame everything on the most obvious thing that pops to mind.

I was exhausted and I blamed myself. "How could I not know I was overdoing it?" I would ask, ignoring the fact that I had not felt tired and that I had allowed time for rest. I was not really listening to what my mind and my body were telling me, that this was just a period of refueling that was necessary before I could make the next leap forward, a leap I did indeed make, a leap that surprised me because it was so unanticipated. The whole process makes me wonder how much any of us really know and understand ourselves. It makes me wonder if understanding only comes after the fact, if our comprehension of the world and ourselves actually is more retrospective than current, if by the time we see where we think we are, we are actually looking at where we've been. I know that I am often initially wrong when I try to explain why I am unhappy or upset; that I latch onto the most obvious answer, and although that supposed event may indeed have been a trigger to my feelings, it often hides something deeper, something that had been biding its time, waiting to surface. If I only look to the obvious triggers, I miss the opportunities for growth that come with allowing the depths to surface, even though the dredging process is often uncomfortable, and I don't tend to see the actual benefit until days, or weeks, or months afterwards.

I was exhausted and I blamed myself for my exhaustion, driving myself further into despondency. I was self critical instead of self-accepting. It is true that I needed physcial rest, but primarily I needed to allow myself to listen to my body, and my soul, and respect their needs according to their schedules, not some predetermined time-frame determined by an overfilled agenda. I suppose that finding balance is one of the problems of modern life, we have too many options to fill our time, and experience too much pressure to keep our lives full, to the extent that rising to the occaision takes on a greater importance than just letting ourselves rest and letting our minds wander. But tiredness wasn't to blame for my melancholy.

I was exhausted and I was frustrated with myself. I was frustrated wtih the process of healing, frustrated with the slow process of getting stronger, frustrated that I cannot do more. Worse, I was annoyed with myself for pushing myself too hard, for exhausting myself to the point of not being able to function. And then, beaten down by exhaustion, all my self-doubts would rear their ugly heads and I would fear that the world see my inability to function, see me for the overwhelmed, irresponsible flake I really am. And of course, feeling like a failure, I would wallow in my own sense of uselessness rather than tackle some small task in order to regain a sense of accomplishment. But one can only wallow for so long. And although frustration and insecurity may have been the shadow demons that haunted my thoughts, they were only symptoms and not the cause of my melancholy.

I was also lonely. And yet at the same time I wasn't lonely. I am surrounded by friends and my life is full. But something was different and I hadn't quite accommodated myself to the change. For the first time in months, I didn't have someone coming in to the house every morning to help me with my morning chores. I could do the chores myself; I didn't need help. But I missed having someone to talk to in the morning. I reliazed that I had counted on that bit of conversation to start my day. But lonliness has nothing to do with living alone. One can be lonely in a house full of people: there were times in the last years of George's life when I was never alone and yet I was lonely. My inner Yoda was telling me "Live alone you do, yet lonliness you must not choose". Upon reflection I realized that I don't feel alone in the world. And happiness must come from within, not because a few kind words from others. Lonliness was not to blame for my melancholy.

Then one morning I woke up with bright eyes and dancing spirits. I lept out of bed with a glad and cheerful cry. I had been missing this part of my nature; I had wondered if my inner lark had lost her way, and there she was, brightly singing her morning song. Suddenly my days got easier. I did more, did it more easily, without explanation. In this constantly measured and quantified world, I jumped from walking 6,000 steps to 8,000 steps a day without even trying. But I also rest more easily. I still get tired, yes, but now when I am tired, I am simply tired. That zombie-like state where both my mind and body seem to shut down has passed, although I am sure that if I tried I could force myself back into it. But why would I try? I can focus again. How did it happen? Why now? Why was I melancholy even? Was it really that simple? Did I simply have to accept that I was melancholy, simply have to accept that melancholy is a normal state of existence? Or was there some seismic shift that I am only just beginning to understand?

Oh, my mood shifts are not gone forever. I am certain that on an occasional tired afternoon, when I hit my usual 3 o'clock slump, my mind will wander off into the shadow lands. But I am also confident that it will wander back into the light again as well. Perhaps my inner lark can only sing when I can acknowledge my own insecurities and imperfections, in accepting them I give them less power to weigh me down. Understanding lurks somewhere on the fringes of my mind and helps guide me even as I can't quite put my finger on its pulse.

July 8, 2014
A Simple Gift

There is a wild blackberry bush growing in my front yard. It is actually somewhat hidden at this point, located as it is at the corner of the house behind some of the foundation plantings. It won't remain hidden for long as it will grow larger in time and it needs to be moved.

Moving the bush isn't a problem. I am beginning the process of landscaping the side and back yards. I live at the end of the street, at the edge of the woods, and Iike the ideas of mixing blackberries into the more formal landscape, of finding some symbiosis between the wild and the more civilized.

But it strikes me that I hadn't even noticed it was there until it was pointed out to me. I stand mere feet from that bush every day as I unwind the hose, water plants, wind the hose back up again. How could I fail to notice something so different from the surrounding shrubbery? Easily as it turns out. The truth is that I had seen the blackberries: I had noticed the blossoms, different as they are from the adjacent bush and I had even noticed the bright red berries foming. But my mind wasn't attending to what my eyes were telling me. Beyond that brief flash of acknowledgement, that brief passing awareness, I had payed no attention at all. I was too busy counting off the steps to "what next" to pay any attention to what was right in front of me.

How much of life do we see and not see simultaneously? I suspect more than we care to admit. How much of what is really valuable in life do we miss by not being present, wrapped up as we are with tasks, and lists, and schedules, our minds focused on "what next" rather than "enjoy now"? Does striking one more item off our To Do lists really make life more meaningful? Is there some reward for having been busier and done more? Is the meaning of life defined by one large tally sheet in the sky? Increasingly I am not convinced.

A blackberry bush seems so unimportant. And yet it is not. The blackberry bush is a gift. More than a gift, it is an invitation to stop for a moment, take a few steps out of one's way, and enjoy a blackberry or two or three, sweet and warmed by the sun, perhaps to share a blackberry with someone else; it is an invitation to open our eyes to those precious little things that are truly important in life, and to escape for a moment, the tyranny of that large tally sheet that so occupies our minds.

July 1, 2014
Local Bounty

My CSA this week included these adorable little caraflex cabbages.

Although cabbage is not new to me, these are, and I am excited to be able to try them. It is also wonderful that they are small enough that I can experiment in the kitchen without being tied to eating cabbage for a week.

There is also a bounty of 'slenderette' green beans. Summer salads beckon.

June 26, 2014
Stormy Seas

I am knitting. There are still days where I only manage a row or two, but there are also days where I knit quite a bit. I am torn between knitting and working upstairs, unpacking sewing and knitting stuff, and dreaming about more knitting and sewing. But I am knitting steadily, and hope to finish this sweater while the weather is still warm.

This photo was actually taken nearly 2 weeks ago. The piece is larger now, but doesn't really look any more like anything in particular than it does here. Basically I am knitting a summer tee, not particularly fitted, but not particularly loose either. The yarn is Habu Textiles, Tsumugi Silk, held double, in two shades of blue. The color numbers are 44 and 50.

I was basically inspired by this pattern, called Insouciant, by Julie Hoover, but I am not exactly following the pattern. I am using the same yarn, and I originally thought I would make the raglan sleeves, but my own mixed feelings about raglan sleeves are likely to mean that I am actually going to make it with set in sleeves, and a slightly less wide neckline. Because I can't therefore call my sweater insouciant, as I only used this pattern as a jumping off point, and because the colors remind me of the ocean, at least in some parts of the world, I am calling this sweater Stormy Seas. I suppose it is also a fitting name as my own feelings about exactly what I am making can also be called somewhat stormy.

As stated, I started with Julie Hoover's pattern, but I also took my yarn and gauge and my dream of how this sweater would fit and orderd a pattern through Amy Herzog's Custom Fit program. I figured it was worth a try as I needed to remeasure myself anyway, and I hoped that custom fit would give me a head start on the math that I knew would be necessary to before I could actually start knitting. I hoped I might learn something as well. In some ways the Custom Fit pattern, and what I would have done had I calculated the sweater myself, are very similar. I do have a few minor quibbles, a few things I would have done differently, but I am reserving my judgement until the sweater is finished. I think my quibbles are minor enough that the sweater will be lovely regardless, and as I said, I may learn something; those initial thoughts and reservations could be completely off base.

The original pattern (insouciant) calls for 4 to 6 inches of positive ease. That is more ease than I felt I wanted, and looking at the various photos of finished projects on Ravelry confirmed my bias. Therefore although I have a 38" bust, I am making a sweater that roughly corresponds to the 35" size, a size that yields a sweater measuring 39 1/2" at the bust. My final sweater will have slighty more ease through the waist and hips, again conforming to my own bias, that fit through the shoulders and upper torso is critical to the look of the sweater. The length of the sweater, and the armhole depth are the lengths I prefer, as calculated by the custom fit program, although I would have knit them to my own lengths regardless.

Custom Fit, which is designed to make the back smaller than the front, when ordered with my desired fit, produced a pattern that corresponds to making the smallest back (size 32) with a size 38 front, yielding a finished sweater that more or less conforms to the desired (35" size). This also corresponds to the sizes I would have chosen had I done the calculations myself. The methodology for the increases and decreases, and their spacing, is different for custom fit pattern than for Insouciant as written, which makes sense as they are aligned to my measurements.

Amy Herzog apparently does not believe raglan sleeve sweaters fit. I am inclined to agree. But as I stated earlier I am open to the idea of trying a raglan sleeve sweater eventually, and I therefore I diligently calculated how I would do the raglan shaping for my altered pattern. But the more I knit this sweater, the more I think I want a sweater with set in sleeves, a sweater I am more confident that I will like in the end. So it is becoming increasingly likely that my sweater will not look quite like the sweater pictured above. Of course the other advantage of following Amy Herzog's pattern is that I will actually have a better understanding of how her system works, how it differs from what I might have done, and whether I wish to use the service in the future. That sounds exciting. It also feels a little daring, given my recent history of producing less than thrilling knitted objects. But then again, I almost feel like every project is a gamble at the moment, and given the choice between knitting nothing or plowing ahead, I choose the latter.

June 24, 2014
500 Dresses

I am making progress in the future sewing room, and the transformation, although slow, is nonetheless exciting. It is true I had gotten a good start last summer, putting up shelves and a cutting table in one of the two rooms upstairs. I started unpacking fabric. I'd like to say I got too busy, and that is partially true, but actually I just got overwhelmed. I couldn't make decisions, so I put everything off until I was ready.

I am ready now. Tables have been set up, but sewing machines are not yet on them. More boxes are getting unapcked. It is wonderful to actually have furniture, to have places to put things as I unpack, and to have the presence of mind to organize everything as well as to discern what is important and what is not. These shelves will mostly contain books: sewing books, knitting books, and books about related things like needlework and fashion. Do not worry; I am not lifting boxes of books. I can, however, open the top box on a stack and proceed, moving books a few at a time to the proper shelf. Although I tire easily with this lifting and moving, I actually like going upstairs to my space again, and I find myself driven to do more than is actually wise. I am learning to pace myself however, to listen to the voice that cries for rest.

Alas, this section is not quite finished. I need to order one more cubitec kit to finish this last unit. I suspected I would need another kit when I placed the initial order. However I still had boxes in the way, and Ialso knew it would be close. Apparently it is very close. I am short three pieces.

In order to make space for the shelves, I had to unpack the boxes of sewing patterns I brought with me from New York. When we moved I knew I had too many patterns, but I had trouble deciding which patterns to keep and which to eliminate. Although I had weeded out patterns before, I stil packed patterns for clothes I made 30 years ago, many of which I now realize I will never make again. As I unpacked, I easily eliminated 25 to 30 percent of the patterns outright. The remaining patterns were sorted by category, which will allow me to sort through them again as I file them.

Even though I live in dresses in the summer, even though I preferred dresses to pants when I was younger, and might again, I was surprised to see that I have more patterns for dresses than anything else. I had so many dress patterns that it felt like I had 500 or more, but of course I do not. There are nowhere near 500 dress patterns in my collection, probably not even 100. But it is obvious that I could make, and probably wear, 500 dresses in my lifetime given the time to do so.

But why the surprise? I loved dresses in my younger decades. I wore skirts and dresses more than pants as a young adult, but gradually stopped. I'm not sure why although I suspect it was due to my own insecurities, and various forms of upheaval in my life over the last 10 to 15 years. I would have said I'm not a girly-girl, but to some extent I am in that I love pretty shoes, and dresses, and jewelry, although I really can't afford the kind of jewelry I love nor do I have the life for it. If I walk into a store however, I find very few dresses I like. Too many are over-designed, or too frilly or too overtly flirtatious. I am definitely not a frou-frou girl, and I when I do cross over to the ruffly-side, I tend to want to mix it with something more tailored and almost masculine in effect.

So apparently dress patterns are good. I have a collection it has taken me years to build, dresses that are definitely my style. And apparently, even when my inner life was in turmoil and I was not dealing well with the emotional stresses of my life, even when I was groping wildly to put my finger on that part of who I am and how I wanted to dress, there was some self-contained innner part who knew exactly what path I wanted to follow. Even as I was frustrated by my inability to find time and the mental peace needed to sew, I bought patterns. I bought patterns for the clothes I wanted to wear even though they weren't the clothes I was actually wearing. I did exactly what we are told not to do, I bought patterns for my fantasy life. But I wasn't buying patterns for evening clothes, or fancy clothes that would never suit my lifestyle and my personality, I was buying clothes for the person I truly was, for the person I had temporarily set aside. I didn't recognize it, as I was too busy keeping myself armed for battle, and my true self spent too much time in full retreat. But she was still there, in her cave, stockpiling inspiration.

Now I am seriously looking forward to sewing again. Some of this sewing will be mundane and analytical, along the lines of which of 5 sleeveless princess-seamed sheath patterns, each by a different company, is the best pattern for me as I am now. This kind of sewing definitely appeals to my analytical side. But there are plenty of creative options as well, and plenty of options for following the inpsiration of the moment.

But first I need to do more unpacking. I need to get a sewing machine set up. I need to find that last box of patterns. How do I know there is a box of patterns missing? I know it because there are dress patterns I know I own that I do not remember seeing as I went through my initial pattern sort. Perhaps I simply missed them, overwhelmed as I was by the overwhelming bounty. Perhaps there really is another box somewhere. I know I saw those patterns in this house. I will find them. Perhaps I should start by sorting through those dress patterns again more thoroughly.

June 21, 2014