Let’s skip the excuses. I’ve been living, and I’ve been making, and all is well.

I knitted and sewed and wove and designed. I made gifts. I read and read and read. I received a lovely rigid heddle loom as a present and am having so much fun weaving my first project on it that I can’t decide whether to stretch out the weaving process just to enjoy it or to finish as quickly as possible so I can start all over again.

I made space for more dance in my life, and I’m in love with the special sort of soreness and confusion that comes with learning and practicing movements that leave me addled and giggling and embarrassed.

I had a wonderful time at the Knitter’s Review Retreat, as I always do, and when I came home I gave myself a break from sewing for others. I neglected my camera all this autumn. I wandered my city with friends who recently moved here and was reminded of how fascinating DC can be. All of it makes me think of Auden, and that makes me happy.

O Where Are You Going?
W. H. Auden

“O where are you going?” said reader to rider,
“That valley is fatal when furnaces burn,
Yonder’s the midden whose odors will madden,
That gap is the grave where the tall return.”

“O do you imagine,” said fearer to farer,
“That dusk will delay on your path to the pass,
Your diligent looking discover the lacking
Your footsteps feel from granite to grass?”

“O what was that bird,” said horror to hearer,
“Did you see that shape in the twisted trees?
Behind you swiftly the figure comes softly,
The spot on your skin is a shocking disease.”

“Out of this house” — said rider to reader,
“Yours never will” — said farer to fearer,
“They’re looking for you” — said hearer to horror,
As he left them there, as he left them there.

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