My eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling.

In addition to being a homemaker (canning season is almost upon us! don’t forget to pack a lunch! thanks for taking out the trash! would you like a cup of tea?) I’m a typist, gamer, counselor, librarian, interpreter, and ministry leader: my free time has mostly been spent away from my computer. That is my excuse, anyway.

Homemaking is rather a busy occupation and I have had to consciously set aside time to enjoy spinning and knitting as restful activities. I am excited for the bounty of the summer, and look forward to canning lots of tomatoes, jars and jars of jams, some mint jelly, and I think maybe even some soups! That might make the fall and winter nights easier for everyone. I have yet to change the house for summer: mom has some fake sunflowers she likes to bring out, and the fireplaces need clearing out and the lawn furniture looked over and cleaned (most of the winter things have been stored already). Cooking for a family of adults has become progressively easier and I find it easy to keep things healthy when there are delicious seasonal vegetables. Keeping the cookie jar full is a task, though! I love spending time in my garden especially now that I can bear the heat and light. Both of our cats like it that I am spending more time outside and often try to join me in my efforts, though our ideas of gardening invariably differ.

What really makes my job interesting to me is the proportion of socializing to task-focused time--I spend just as much or more time listening to people, trying to figure out individual issues and just sitting and talking to people about their day as I do cleaning, cooking, mending, gardening, fixing, or any number of things. As much as I value a clean and orderly house, people don’t need houses as much as they need homes. I often forget to dust.

The Maryland Sheep & Wool Festival was delightful earlier this month, and I had the great blessing of seeing a good many friends, making some very good purchases, and enjoying myself as much as any enthusiast can on fine spring days amongst creative and competent professionals, and happy amateurs (ok, and their compliant families). I bought my first drop spindle, in the medieval style of a low whorl. It makes spinning a portable craft, and one that can be completed while walking.

Over all of my activities, I keep noticing more and more changes for the better in my health! It is very encouraging, though now I feel very old and very young at the same time; this is bewildering and in some cases upsetting, and proves that I am very much alive. The treadmill downstairs has given me some treachery by allowing me to think too much of my strength; I overtaxed myself a few times with hilarious results: I still need my albuterol inhaler but so much more infrequently than last year or the years before! I can stand the sun’s heat and light on my skin and eyes, and once even I laughed till I was finished laughing (a small thing, but to actually let myself have a good hearty laugh has been a rare enough thing these half dozen years).

My glory, and the lifter of my head.

I have not died or done anything drastic. (Sorry for the long absence.) I have, on the contrary, been living quite extraordinarily. It will doubtless be remembered by longtime readers that I used to be very ill with some kind of respiratory distress; the doctors did not agree on what it was but did at least agree that it was complicated, and made more difficult by mental stress and a variety of allergies. Upon returning to my home country, I expected the change of air, situation and environment to have some positive effect and that eventually I would be able to look forward to waking up in the morning and perhaps one day be able to look at my own future with a tad more hope and a measure less of dread.

I don’t say that these goals have all been achieved and that I bear no negative effects from a long and chronic illness, but I will say that last year I could only walk briskly for fifteen minutes before I was weak, dizzy, and needing my albuterol inhaler: this year it is half an hour:) In the printed word it seems so small... but imagine five whole years of gasping for air every time I tried to walk on a treadmill or take a hike or keep pace with others on a city sidewalk. I can now even start a regular exercise regimen that does not simply involve slow stretches. It feels good to be able to run, even for just a minute or two at a time.

My garden is starting to realize that winter will not last forever, too; when brushing out some odd leaves, clipping back the neighbors’ ivy from my red-brick corner, there seems a waiting, quivering, impatient, laughing silence. It makes me afraid that with such life waiting in my little garden, what must it have looked like when the very stones of the earth were desperate to cry the name of Jesus! I look forward to spring, to my roses and my herbs and the cats rolling around in the patches of sunlight. I want the sun on my face and the smell of clean earth on my hands.

Oh, and I splurged on Amazon.com and bought some used copies of some of my old textbooks from my grad studies in Ireland. The Alliterative Revival is so much more exciting than it sounds... and I’ve begun to read in Old English again.

Cum dilatasti cor meum

This is a long, personal entry that has the words "feelings" and "emotions" in it, as well as using several bad analogies, and it does not end happily (though it does end hopefully). Consider yourself warned.

Sometimes I think that “growing up” is a very hazy experience; I remember when learning to ride a bike my balance was always skewed, and now I feel like the physical environment that seemed to shift when I was moving is just like any true insight I ever had about myself (wavers, grows unsteady, becomes meaningless, then rights itself so suddenly that I cannot grasp it). Weird way to describe it, but I can only shrug at my way of expressing myself. Since I stopped reading so voraciously I have lost some of my ability to express anything gracefully (if I ever had it in the first place; now that I have friends who know how to use commas properly I doubt myself even more!).

I have come to the conclusion that I am not so gifted with this whole “real life” thing, too. Yes, I had another interview with no call back. It is a little disheartening but it is nice to know that the wall I’ve been banging my head on for so long is indeed still there. God is apparently not so keen on my job hunting efforts. And it is true that I am useful where I am. But, I say in prayer, through much rambling and phrasing, I would like to know my future, and to see things properly so that I can control them so that they will be safe. How much of me, I ask you, is controlled by that fear?! What kind of a person am I becoming if I let fear conquer my trust in God? Soon he’ll bring me justice--my faith, tho timid, remains.

I remember a time when I sat in my bedroom and felt within me the desire to pray to God to let me die. I wanted it so very much, but I saw myself wanting it and knew that it was wrong to pray for that kind of death, so I sat in my cold and silent room, with God, and I did not ask Him. But I know he knew what I wanted and why I was silent. I felt so brittle and numb... but I knew that that moment would be a defining one for me. George MacDonald’s ‘The Princess and the Goblin’ has a perfect image of this in the fire opal ring that the princess’ great big grandmother gave her--attached to it was a fine string, spun of cobwebs, that if she only followed it would lead her to safety. I have spun cobweb-weight yarn. I know its properties, and what it is like to be working in the darkness with every power of sight and touch focused on following that thin strand to its end. (I probably shouldn’t spin by candlelight no matter how romantic it is, but sometimes there is no other remedy for a troubling day.) It was the same feeling as spinning cobweb-yarn; that thin and listening awareness, a resolute trust, a given promise (or plighted troth, since we are romantics here). That faith and trust in God is a thing in itself, apart from my self and my desires--it exists in me most clearly when there is nothing to distract me but the darkness.

So this whole job thing I’m not sweating too much. I would like to have the approval of the people around me and to be financially independent, but I don’t always get what I want. And I did not do well on my own. And the work I do here is useful to His purposes. Trying to keep my chin up and not just barrel on through with my head down is somewhat of a challenge. This carpe diem is not the way I expected to understand the concept.

In other news, I’ve been reading the books of history in the Old Testament; the bits after the sack of Jerusalem and the exile to Babylon. It makes me grieve every single day. The story of the heartbreak of God is utterly gut-wrenching. I am reminded, too, that though my feelings and emotions are subjective and I am not an all-knowing, all-powerful creator, they are the shadow of something very real and very true--God has emotions like mine. Sometimes I am ashamed that I can too clearly imagine Christ’s bloody suffering on the cross but really have to focus, to sift through images in my head so that I can see him disappointed and hurt.

And just the other day I was knitting a baby sweater. I like to imagine the people I make things for wearing the things I make, so it was a shock to me that I felt a kind of dull unhappiness when I realized the baby I was making the sweater for is not my child. I don’t usually have those feelings. It was extremely unnerving, and I was in a bad mood the rest of the day. What on earth is going on in my brain!?

Back to spinning by candlelight. If I can find my cup of tea in the dimness at my bench, the world will look brighter in the morning.

According to "Do Not Destroy".

This first picture of my knitting on the left (the cobweb of dusty alpaca in the back) and my best friend's is the purple cardigan piece. Hers is the blue cup and mine is the white. She is my dear friend since childhood, and now we live in the same country!

God is very good to me.

And that is what I want to remember about the time in between my last entry and this one. In other news; I was in a serious car accident, have had several emotionally dramatic things happen in my family that have kept me on the phone for an hour per night (on average) for several weeks, have learned two or three new skills to help me in my household work, have been reintroduced to my sign language skills rather forcibly, helped a friend move, and catalogued a boatload of library books for our church library. It means I am tired and struggle not to be cranky.

Knitting & Spinning: Yarns, Ribbons, & Rosettes

I won two blue ribbons and one red at the county fair; one of the blue ones and a purple rosette for Best-In-Show for the scarf in this picture. And I got all blues at our state fair:)

Two of the entries were yarn--a fine undyed laceweight merino (2 ply), and one wet-spun linen that made my fingers all pruny every time I spun for more than half an hour. I gather not many folks spin linen around her so that might account for the wonder of it.

The lace scarf is one from my own merino laceweight; also 2 ply, but different from the yarn I entered as a skein. It is an Estonian motif after the lily-of-the-valley, designed by Nancy Bush. Mrs. Bush is an historian extraordinaire whose second home (in the style of Gertrude Stein and Paris) is Estonia.

My parents are farm kids but they raised me and my sisters as city/island/extraterrestrial kids, so we never got the experience of entering things in fairs or being in 4H or anything. Their families back home will be pleased to see my ribbons in our Christmas missive.

Cotton is the other fiber I've been spinning--I won some at the MS&WF and haven't been able to find a better way to process it than spinning straight from the boll, which is what my spinning folk told me to do in the first place.

My handspun has been going to good use--I made a pair of armwarmers for my mother for Christmas and a headwrap for me to keep my hair up and away from my face when I'm working--this last is one of my few head-coverings that my sister claims does not "make [me] look homeless". Pics forthcoming if I can find decent ones.

And I knitted my first sweater:) It is delightful! I am surprised it worked out, and surprised at how easy it was. And my knitting group is very supportive and helpful. I love them and how positive and knowledgeable they are. It is good to surround oneself with such good people. And warm sweaters... I knitted it out of cheapish wool so it is already pilling pretty badly but it fits me well and is incredibly warm, and nobody noticed at my knitting group that I was wearing a handknit garment until I told them! Since it is a game between us to guess about handknits, I believe this means I win.

Cooking, etc.: Canning and Preserving

I decided ages ago that I wanted to learn how to can and preserve fruits and vegetables, and now I have begun. My canned tomatoes (several dozen jars, due to a miscommunication at the farmer's market) turned out well as a beginner's project. I was a little ambitious and tried not only a following project of blueberry-lime conserve (very good!) but also tomato jam (a childhood favorite of my mother) and serendipitously one of my shoppers found a lot of stew meat on sale, so I canned that too and that made about a dozen jars. Soon I shall continue on to the autumnal delights of apple sauce, apple butter and pumpkin pickles. This year I'm going to make more apple sauce than I did before. And the house will smell delicious.

I thought a picture of Mambrino was a bit necessary--I love this bowl for mixing and raising bread dough, 'frisaging' pastry dough (much better than plastic, metal, or glass because of the texture), serving salads or bread... and all the other uses in the kitchen that bowls get. Because it is handmade, the surfaces aren't perfectly smooth symmetrical, and I find that this quality of all of his to be practical and useful. I love using Mambrino with King Arthur Flour's old-fashioned dough whisk; I get the perfect amount of control over quickbread/muffin and cake batters.

Gretre luf hath ne man than thys: that he maketh cioccolat muffyns ond doth not ete them alle but leveth som for hys frendes.

Sometimes I am absolutely delighted by my work. No matter that my life choices have been completely unorthodox (and yet somehow traditional?) and my future so uncertain as to test my faith! I am learning to wait on the Lord and live in the moment. This moment specifically being the one in which I made chocolate muffins in the middle of the night.

Anybody who has had an even semi-fulfilled childhood knows the happiness of licking the spoon/bowl of the batter of something delicious, like cookies or cake or pudding. But did you know that this joy is just as present when you are an adult? I generally do not go in for this sort of thing because although I believe you shouldn't trust a skinny cook, you also should beware the fat ones. So I give the spoons and bowls away to people who appreciate them. It was particularly nice tonight because I got to give a large spoonful away to a young woman all curled up in bed with a book and a cat and lots of pillows ("I want to CRY right now there is so much chocolate in this!"), and the new young man upstairs who was on the phone and playing clips of old Batman shows on YouTube ("Is that chocolate? I CAN PUT MY MOUTH ON THAT?!!?").

I dunno. I guess happy domesticity + chocolate = gets me every time.

What it means to be faithful

I’m not going to go on an expository ramble on what it means to be faithful, not today. No, this is pretty much definitely a rant.

It always bothered me that faithfulness was usually defined by its testing, trials, and breakages. I hope most people are familiar with the story of the prodigal son and his brother, and everyone knows at least one couple (or has seen a good dozen TV shows or films about) being broken because of infidelity or describing what it is like to come out of a tragic relational labyrinth, rise above it, and still be able to love wholeheartedly. It seemed to me as a girl that the only way to know whether someone was faithful was to see them be unfaithful (and this doesn’t apply just to romance; I mean the fathers who promise to spend time with their kids, the friends who promise they’ll be there for you, the honorable word of businessmen, etc.).

A story: I was young to be in college and my ideals then were less defined and less weathered than they are now, when I was in a literature class and we were required to read Kate Chopin’s short story ‘The Storm’. In it, a storm separates a woman at her house from her husband, who is nearby at a mercantile or shop. While he is away, the woman’s lover arrives at the house, makes passionate love to her and then leaves when the storm is over. The storm brings life to the land around them exactly, as the author points out, the way that the infidelity of the wife brought a renewed love and affection for her husband. Wait--what... ? What kind of a world is this? My instructor read the sexually explicit parts with bliss and enthusiasm, approving of the infidelity and sneering at self-sacrifice.

It occurred to me at this point that you can break a thing irrevocably, just to find out what it is. And suddenly I saw it happening everywhere, and I became very angry, very afraid, and very protective of those I loved. There are certain things that should never be done. I’m still very loyal (dogged, stubborn, set, clench-jawed) to my friends and family about that sort of thing, so that the conversation which prompted this entry really actually made my blood boil. Or just simmer a little in a very uncomfortable way.

My itch: the faithful few are taken for granted while prodigals are glorified. I don’t mean that I wish people would either stay or leave the faith in a very black and white way. I do rejoice at the return of someone who has gone astray. But prodigals and whores who make one step in the right direction are in the minds of many more saintly than those who actually make good choices on a consistent basis. As if it is somehow easy for good people to be good?! To refrain from evil is an excellent goal, and also repentance when we do commit evil. But let us not sin so that grace may abound. And let us encourage one another so that we do not lose heart or our resolve.

Maybe I am just tired. I don’t want fame or undue happiness or an official day dedicated to the faithful, but I want the truth to be told, and I want justice and I want grace. “And I want it now,” says a small, echoey, nasal voice in the back of my head.

I really want things to be right. For everybody. Right now. Come, Lord Jesus. Come soon.

Lavender & Chamomile

I am enjoying, for the first time in a good dozen years, having a bit of garden of my own. My gardens are usually herb gardens because other people in my family like vegetable gardening more, and because I am more interested in herbs and their histories and possible uses. Besides, less pesty creatures and weeds tend to get around in herb gardens than in vegetable gardens. My corner is full of herbs of different sorts, some of which I haven't had time to use yet and

some of which have not yet taken off like I wish they would (you can't have everything). For the present, though, the blooming lavender and chamomile are giving me enough to do on my weekends.

These are my four lavender plants (two English and two French). We just planted them in late summer of last year and they have been remarkably happy in their partially sunny spot. The Wagnerian mutant on the left of the photo is lemon balm.

I use a cheap dish tub to harvest the plant and to place below them on their drying rack so that whatever bits do fall off won't make a mess on my workspace. This is the same one I use to wash my yarn and set the twist in it. Usually there are two blooming seasons (or at least I think so) and this is the first one. This is the third weekend I've come out to pick lavender; because I have such a nice setup with a dehumidifier already in the room (one of the ones used for air than for food) and a nice, dark, cool place (basement is always cold) my handfuls of lavender tend to dry in about a week so I can just take the flowers off the dry stuff and hang the new stuff and call it a day. I spend maybe two very lazy hours playing with my garden per week. It is a nice break from housework.

The chamomile is quicker to do because there is less of it and the plant as a whole is more compact. This variety is called German chamomile, which is the milder version as opposed to Roman chamomile. Most American home gardens will probably have German chamomile. It smells like apples and makes a sweet, calming tea. You make it when people feel ill or unhappy or sad or angry or frustrated or crampy or colicky. It soothes but does not solve. More often than not it is what is wanted, anyway. I use the trays from an old food dehumidifier without the heating element for the chamomile, and am more careful since the oils are more delicate and they'll be more likely used as tea rather than in a pillow or sachet.

These are the cats, who call what they are doing "helping".

Then the lavender and chamomile both end up at my workspace in old McCann's Steel-Cut Oatmeal cans with ziploc bags inside them, until I want to use them in one of the various things they are good for. I like my desk, down here. It is where I keep my knitting needles.