I slack on posting and taking pictures, but oh, how I succeed at reading–and particularly reading and loving poetry.  Lest this tradition fall by the wayside, the most apt poem for Imbolc, this day, February first.  It’s my beloved Mom’s birthday, and we have a light dusting of snow, and I can’t get my mind off this piece in the Book of Leinster.  The book is in Trinity College Dublin, and I used to moon over its pages every few days.  This is on one of them. I’ve included Kuno Meyer’s classic translation  below.

Slán seiss a Brigit co mbuaid
for gruaid Lifi lir co tráig;
is tu banflaith buidnib sluaig
fil for clannaib Cathair Máir.

Ba móu epert in cach ré
airle Dé fri Herind uill.
indiu cid latt Liphe líg.
ropo thír caich ar n-uair.

O doréccu Cuirrech caín
assa tháeb na torc
[…]
tír;
dobeir macdath for cach meild
in cor foceird for cach ríg.

Ba rí Loegaire. co ler
Ailill Áne adbol cor
marid Currech cona lí
ní mair nach rí ro boí for.
Ni mair Labraid Longsech lán

iar tundsem a thríchait cáem.
i nDind Ríg ba hadba gnath.
o thuc bráth do Chobthach Cael.
Gabais Herind hua Luirc.
Oengus Roirend réim co sairc.

rolá flathi dara feirt
Maistiu munbrecc Moga Airt.
Ailend aurdairc álaind fál fuis.
fail mór flathi foa cnius .
ba mó foscnad tan atchess

Crimthan Coscrach ina crius.
Gáir a ínaig iar cech mbuaid.
im chúail claideb cumtaig drend
bríg a fían fri indna ngorm.
gloim a corn for cétaib cend.

Gles a hindeón comdad cúar.
clúas a duan do thengthaib bard;
bruth a fer fri comlund nglan.
cruth a ban fri óenach n-ard.
A hól meda for cech mbruig.

a graig allmar ilar tuath;
a seinm rond do rígaib fer
fo duilnib sleg cóicrind cruach.
A ceóil binni in cach thrath.
a fínbárc for tondgur fland;

a fross argait orddain máir.
a tuirc óir a tírib Gall.
Co muir nAlban amal chair
raith a orddan la cech ríg.
ru fer amaill im cech cain.

Alend alaind cona bríg.
Bressal ba rí for Eilgg.
Fiachra Fobrecc fein co ngairg.
Fergus Fairgge. Find mac Roith
carsat boith i nAlind aird.

Adrad lithu ni fiu clúas
solud na sén siabras bás.
is bréc uile iarna thur
indid Alend is dún fás.
Foglass a ngein tibes duit

a maigreid l tuaith cricha Cuirc.
di cech lín ro n-alt a húair
doringne luaith Liphi Luirc.
Currech Lifi lir co hor.
Currech Sétnai síth co ler.

is mor ríg fris rala cor.
Currech Corpri Nio Fer.
Cathair Már ba forgu delb.
reraig Herind ilar ndolb.
ce chutgáre oca ráith

ro scáich a ngal ilar fodb.
Fiachna Fomnae Bresal ran.
rerid sál co snigib sleg.
trichait ruirech réin cu cor
gabsat tír im Themair Breg.

Benna Iuchna álaind port
imma ndessid ilar fert.
fega latt i nAlmain aird
adba Thaidg meic Nuadat Necht.
Fodbae Feradaig fo mind.

immu nd-aigtís buidne bend.
a barr breglass a brat líg
is mór ríg rala dar cend.
Dunlang Fornacta ba fíal.
flaith fri Niall ro chathu cloí

ce adfeissed scel do neoch.
ni hé in bith ceta boi.
Brigaiss Illand im thuaith
tríchait catha fri cech ríg;
hua Ennai. ald fri nath.

nibu sluag cen rian ríg.
Ba rí Ailill ernad rath.
resi ndressed cath crodond cruaid.
Cormac mac Corpri. Colmán Mór
Brandub barc i mbatar sluaig.

Ba slicht flatha Faelan find.
Fiannamail fri forbud fland.
Bran mac Conaill co llín glond
ba si in tond dar cach n-ald.
A Brigit ‘s a tír atchiu.

is cach a úair immudrí
ro gab do chlú fora chlú
ind ríg is tu fordatá
Tathut bithlaith lasin Ríg
cen a tír i fail do rúaim.
a ue Bresail meic Déin.
i slan seiss a Brigit co mbuaid.

Kuno Meyer’s translation: 1912

Sit thou safely enthroned, triumphant Brigit, upon the side of Liffey far as the strand of the ebbing sea!

Thou art the sovereign lady with banded hosts that presides over the Children of Catháir the Great.

God’s counsel at every time concerning Virgin Erin is greater than can be told: though glittering Liffey is thine today, it has been the land of others in their turn.

When from its side I gaze upon the fair Curragh….The lot that has fallen to every king causes awe at each wreck

Logaire was king as far as the sea,–Ailill Áne, a mighty fate: the Curragh with its glitter remains–none of the kings remains that lived thereon.

Perfect Labraid Longsech lives no more, having trodden under foot his fair thirty years: since in Dinn Rig–`twas a wonted abode–he dealt doom to Cobthach the Slender.

Lore’s grandson, Oengus of Róiriu, seized the rule of Erin,….sway; Maistiu of the freckled neck, son of Mug Airt, through princes across their graves.

Fair-famed Alenn! Delightful knowledge! Many a prince is under its girth: it is greater than can be fathomed when Crimthan the Victorious was seen in its bosom.

The shout of triumph heard there after each victory around a shock of swords, a mettlesome mass; the strength of its warrior-bands against the dark blue battle-array; the sound of its horns above hundreds of heads.

The tuneful ring of its even-colored bent anvils, the sound of songs heard there from the tongues of bards; the ardour of its men at the glorious contest; the beauty of its women at the stately gathering.

Drinking of mead there in every home-stead; its noble steeds, many tribes; the jingle of chains unto kings of men under blades of five-edged bloody spears.

The sweet strains heard there at every hour, its wine-barque upon the purple flood; its shower of silver of great splendor; its torques of gold from the lands of the Gaul.

Far as the sea of Britain the high renown of each king has sped like a meteor: delightful Alenn with its might has made sport of every law.

Bresal Bree was king over Elg, Fiachra Fobree with a fierce band of warriors; Ferus of the Sea, Finn son of Roth they loved to dwell in lofty Alenn.

Worship of auguries is not worth listening to, nor of spells and auspices that betoken death; all is vain when it is probed, since Alenn is a deserted doom.

Brigit is the smile that smiles on you from the plain…of Core’s land; of each generation which it reared in turn Liffey of Lore has made ashes.

The Currah of Liffey to the brink of the main, the Curragh of Sétna, a land of peace as far as the sea,–many is the king whom the Curragh of Carbre Nia-fer has overthrown.

Catháir the Great– he was the choicest of shapes –ruled Erin of many hues: though you cry upon him at his rath, his prowess of many weapons has vanished.

Fiachna of Fomuin, glorious Bresal ruled the sea with showers of spears: thirty great kings to the edge of the sea seized land around Tara of Bregia.

The Peaks of Iuchna, delightful place, around which many graves have settled behold in lofty Allen the abode of Tadg, son of Nuada Necht!

The apparel of Feradach–a goodly diadem–around whom crested bands would move; his blue-speckled helmet, his shining mantle,–many a king he overthrew.

Dunlang of Fornochta, he was generous, a prince who routed battles against the sons of Niall: though one were to tell the tale to all, this is not the world that was once.

Illann with his tribe launched thirty battles against every king, Enna’s grandson, a rock against terror, it was not a host without a king’s rule.

Ailill was a king that would bestow favour, against whom a fierce blood-dark battle-host would rise: Cormac, Carbre, Colman the Great, Brandub, a barque in which were hosts.

Faelan the Fair was a track of princeship, Fianamail with….; Braiin, son of Conall with many deeds, he was the wave over every cliff.

Oh Brigit whose land I behold, on which each one in turn has moved about, thy fame has outshone the fame of the king–thou art over them all.

Thou hast everlasting rule with the king apart from the land wherein is thy cemetery. Grand-child of Bresal son of Dian, sit thou safely enthroned, triumphant Brigit!

Tags: celtic studies, imbolc, poetry

I keep promising myself that I’ll cut back on unnecessary projects.  I mean, really, doesn’t everyone who wants a knitting wristlet already have one?  Why do I need to make hundreds more?  I don’t, do I?  But then I think of the eventual move, and how it would be best if I had less fabric to pack, and how making bags  uses up fabric.

And then things get blurry for a while, and I’ve suddenly cut out the pieces for 42 bags.  I even cut fabric that had previously been considered sacred and was sequestered away from the regular bag food.  I’ve gone mad, I tell you!  That bright turquoise on top is a Tula Pink print that’s out of production, and several other members of that line are in the pile too.  Now, to see if I can complete these all in time for Rhinebeck.

(yes, yes I can.  I already did.  Yay me.)

Before the head-swimming rotary-cut-athon, I made this.  I liked the string-pieced bags I made last autumn, but I felt like they were a bit too chaotic, and possibly not quite big enough for a big sweater project.  This is the new take on the same concept.  I love all of the orange, and that teal and orange batik–that was one of the first sacred pieces that would up on the cutting mat.  It opened the flood-gates, as it were.

I even took pictures of the outside. They’re . . . coming. Lightroom still feels foreign to me.

Also, our friends Anna and Sean had a beautiful baby girl this summer. I made her this:

I’m really enjoying the concept of a baby quilt preceding a full-sized bed quilt out of my studio. It’s a great way to test sashing, and it makes me want to finish the larger quilt, and it just keeps making space in the stash.  I quilted the bejeesus out of this one, and encouraged Anna and Sean to use it and wash it with abandon and just drag it back to me if it develops any holes.  We’ll see if they do.

This is the finished trim I made for Adon’s wedding:

I hope I’ll keep seeing it around for years and years, and I think I will. He did a beautiful job adding it to the tunic.

Back to the needles . . .

Autumn kicks my ass. Every. Damn. Year. It’s my favorite season, but it also has far too much going on. Here are some snippets to serve as placeholders until I can spend some quality time with my camera and Lightroom.  (I broke down and bought Lightroom, by the way.  Setting it up finally killed my ailing laptop–but all is well.  I have a lovely desktop that I neglect, and it has the archives of all things.)

I wove some trim for my friend Adon’s wedding clothes. It started like this, but got much better.

The tans are silk from Webs, the white is cotton from my friend Kestrel, and the cream is a gorgeous Foxfire Cormo blend.  I’ve truly fallen for that Big Wave loom of mine, by the way.  We had an excellent time together this summer.  Um, there may be absolutely no photographic evidence of that yet, but that just means I get to stalk and photograph friends wearing the spoils of my labor–always fun, that.

I got back to work on the woolalong afghan a few weeks ago. I’d paused at 25 squares, trying to decide whether to add another round of squares, since that would require knitting 25 more squares. That’s a lot of squares.  But I’ve  truly loved hunting down the yarns, dyeing so many myself, and particularly working with other people’s handspun–that’s the best bit. I finally decided that since the 25 square blanket was too short to really cover an adult comfortably, and that one day I would live in a world without a cat that eats wool, and since I hadn’t gotten all of the breeds on the list into the blanket yet, I needed to keep going. And keep going I have. I’ve done another 10 squares. Here’s the 11th on the needles.  If I hurry, I may manage to finish the whole thing in time for the KR retreat.

The yarn is a lovely Corriedale from Windborne Farms in Pennsylvania. I found it and two other skeins in coordinating colors while Clara and I were wandering around Maryland Sheep and Wool. It’s beautifully stuff. I want a sweater’s worth.

Somewhere in the midst of the making, I got to visit with Purlewe, Sue, Martha, and Beth in Philadelphia.  I love wandering around friends’ home towns with them.  We dropped in on Lisa at Hidden River Yarns, and her new shop is gorgeous.

I also made a Color Affection shawl.  Several of us got to talking at MDSW about a Sunna version, and I caved.  I used Roman Bronze, Piney Woods, and, er, some teal I forget the name of.  It’s actually finished and blocked, but I haven’t gotten around to photographing it yet.  After I chose the colors, I realized I’d inadvertently matched one of my favorite skirts, so I’m looking forward to a chance to wear them together once it cools down.

Now, I’m off to ponder a ridiculous new sewing machine and make as many bags as I can to bring to Rhinebeck.

When Tethera was in full swing, our performances at Celtic festivals tended to include question and answer sessions, because, well, we have an small, interesting and interested group of fans.  A question we got several times was: “What sort of creation myth did the Celts have.”  And the three of us would explain that while the characters are in place, there is no extant creation myth in any of the existing sources, though the invasion myths abound.  And then I’d joke about maybe, one day,  when I’d built up enough hubris, I’d write one myself.

And then I did just that—making sure to include enough signposts to make it clear that this is new work rather than a translation of an ancient text.  I haven’t been struck dead yet, so I guess that’s enough of an approval from whatever pantheon is holding on.  Here it is, particularly suited to Equinoxes, both because of the balance between feminine and masculine and old and new, but also the pairing of humor and sex. They are partners.  I wish I was telling it to you—it’s truly a performance piece, and I love telling it.

Sun came first.
This much we know.

Many many years ago
Vibrant Lugh sparked the light
That burned, one spot,
In blackest night

Brazen Lugh, an ember burning
Emblazoned on the raven orb
Recognized his wondrous rising,
As, well, something he’d not done before.
He cocked his head and puffed his chest
And crowed out to the formless dust
That he was all, and muckle, and much,
Creator of the blah blah blah and such.
—Not a poet yet, was Lugh, first met.

Arianrhod, bright wheel shining,
She so lithe and fulsome sweet
Glowed in the gloom, slowly turning
From fecund curve to ankle neat
Luscious rump to whittled waist
Sickle to orb, wrist to breast—yes
Pearly she and her snowy bed
Were there ere Lugh lit up his head.

She could not abide such prideful muck
Even spewing forth from such rich lips,
So bright a brow above them now
And shoulders broad and down below . . .
Where was I, yes, she had to go
And set him right,
That gorgeous thing that rose that night.

Creatrix, She, rose ages past,
Then slumbered much,
Finding Self-birth was a formidable task,
So close on the heels of self-conception.
“Don’t even get me started about being pregnant with my own divine ass.”
Such work demanded rest on a snowy bed
Whereupon she dreamed a ruddy stag
And he to mount an argent doe
oh, oh

And so,
She turned to him and gleamed
A mirror for his scorching beam
And thus her gaze redoubled their light
Those two who shone in endless night
She gave him chills, and he enflamed her
He warmed her through, she quenched his fever
And they came together then, those two
Whose rising warmed the black to blue
As those two Gods twined and twinned
And loved and fought,  did this begin—
Earth came
Water came
Air and land, stone and moss
Time and tide, and love and loss
And all they did gave us our place
Here below what once was waste

At least, so I dreamed it
on my snowy bed
one night, ere Lugh lit up his head
And chased away fair Arianrhod
His mother and lover, his shining God

© 2011 Amy Ripton

So I was here, and then I was visiting Asheville, and then I was here again, and then we went on vacation, and now I’m back, but drowning in projects.  And books.  But the book I really want is missing.  And Speedwell . . . . Speedwell has finally cracked.  I’ll try to catch you up.  Well, I’ll try to try.

I gave my friend Angus this . . .

And Johan got a similar one (which, yes, I neglected to photograph).  Angus’s may be the belt I’m fondest of, so far.  I love the level of contrast.  I used a variety of yarns, mostly wool with some silk and alpaca mixed in.  It’s about 4 1/2″ wide and about 12 feet long, which, yes, is ludicrous for an inkle.

And I’m wearing this .  . .

Which my talented friend Maggie made out of beautiful handmade silver luniks (or lunitsas, or whatever), Danish silver findings,  and ancient glass beads.  I fell for this when we saw Maggie and Scot this spring, and I finally cracked a couple of weeks ago.  The thought of some other weirdo wearing this made me violent–always a sign I need to hit the ATM and buy the thing already.

And knitting this . . .

A fingerless mitt, using some amazing Foxfire sock wool that I dyed last autumn.  Orange, how I love you.

And I made these for my friend Dami . . .

Which, um, I should put in the mail already.

I’ve also resurrected some old projects and am plotting a couple of new ones.  Let’s save that for later.

How the hell to get out of a photography slump.

I got a nice DSLR in 2009 and took literally thousands of pictures in Yellowstone, the Grand Tetons, and Utah. I kept chugging along taking pictures, but the better the camera, the more I felt I needed to improve the pictures I took and the more it seemed like I needed to do a little color correction or other processing before posting them. And on and on.

And, here it is, almost three years later, and I’m terrible about taking and posting photos! I’ve done hundreds of hours of work in my garden this spring and planted thousands of plants and bulbs–and you’ve seen none of it. I’ve been sewing and knitting and camping and playing with our pets–and you’ve seen none of it. I took photos at a friend’s hand-fasting in late April–LATE APRIL–and those images are still in my camera. Ugh!

So, what’s a good jump-start, folks?  I want to really improve my photography and photo processing skills, but I also just want to keep a decent document of this here life I’m living.  Any tips?  Have any photography challenges kept you clicking away?  How do I get over the hump between taking the picture and getting the image out of the camera and up on the web, already?! (interrobang!)

Updated to add a photo!  Look, proof of knitting.  These are a gift for my friend Dami–I let her pick, and she opted for hedgerow mitts.  I’ve elongated the arm portion at her request.  These are flying, but they should, shouldn’t they?  Also, it is difficult to use an ipad to take a picture of one’s own hand.  Very difficult.

After tearing the room apart and putting it back together again, I figured I should make a new studio tour video. Enjoy!

I’ve been spending most of my free time in the garden this spring, and the mild weather here has been wonderful. I know it’ll end soon, but I’m struggling to soak up as much of it as I can. Once it gets too hot, it’ll be all sewing, all the time. I’ve been tricked into making some 14th century (i.e., journalism) quilted arming stuff, and I’m going along kicking and screaming.

Also, I made some socks. Like I do.

I’ve been doing what I do: writing, singing, gardening, camping, making things, cooking things. I keep meaning to tell you about it, but I haven’t managed to sit still for long enough until today.

We went to Mississippi in March, and had a fantastic time with these folks and a lot of other friends. I was neglectful of my camera, but not my bardic work.  Of course, there’s no film of that, because that would creep me all the way out.

I’ll post a few photos here, but more are on Flickr.

The Early Period Life encampment was all a flutter with building activities, and it was amazing to watch.

The trip to Mississippi planted a seed–we’ve been talking about moving away from the DC area for ages, but we’ve finally picked a destination. Start the timers–we’re heading for Asheville within the next few years. The mere thought has me bursting with excitement and frantic to do all the projects that have to happen before selling a house and moving hundreds of miles away. I’m trying not to think about how hard it will be to leave our little house and garden, not to mention our local friends and family.

We came home from Mississippi, and then we made a cheese Sleipnir for a friend’s birthday the following weekend.

And brought it to an event I’ve been hosting for 15 years or so.

Arunedoor smiled a lot, particularly at his boy, Dylan.

Cellagh played with Dylan’s toys and made me laugh too hard for too long. It’s been a month, and my belly still aches.

And, sadly, we walked away from a site we’ve been using for decades. That was our last trip there. We’d consecrated it time and time again over the years, and my heart is a little broken knowing we won’t be back. We left our marks.

And I got to go home to a studio lit so much more fully, thanks to a kind friend.

In the wake of the last campout at our lovely old site, I of course pulled the studio apart and reprganized it. Maybe I’ll take some pictures and show you the current layout. In my spare time. When I’m not prepping my house for sale.

This is one of the warmest winters I ever remember in Virginia, and I disapprove.  I heartily disapprove.  And apparently I’m demonstrating my disapproval by making blankets I don’t need.  I’ve worked on nothing but blankets for weeks, and yet I’m kicking off the quilt night after night, wishing for a hard freeze and snow that demands attention.

The wool-along blanket was pretending to be nearly finished, but I decided I had to pick apart the squares and take out a band of lace that just wasn’t right.  Geometry smacked me right upside the head, and everything went wonky and wrong. All my talk a few weeks ago about my ease with knitting was hubris.  I should have seen this coming.  But, still, the yarn won’t be ruined and the squares have come back together nicely. 

All of my despair as I crocheted the squares together proved worth it. Unzipping the seams was much easier than picking apart feet of mattress stitch. And I think repetition is making me less angsty about crochet. I am worried about making another rank of squares for the outside. I’m on the 25th square now, and still have tons of yarn left. Using all 24 of the wools will make for a giant blanket.  Giant.  Do people use bed-sized afghans?

I also zipped through a queen-sized sweater-felt pieced blanket.  I’m not sure whether or not I’ll back and quilt it.  I made nine-patch squares with larger pieces of felt, and then sashed with strips of the smaller squares.

It’s a bit homely, but very warm. Also very interesting to the wool cat.

I think this is my favorite square. That waviness of the construction stitches is what makes me hesitant to quilt it.

My dear friend Etaine was kind enough to give me a book made by her sister Michelle, who happens to be an amazing weaver and dyer and blogger. She dyed the yarn with woad and wove the fabric, which is an emboldened tabby called “Lover’s Knot.” I think I’ve spent more time cuddling the book than writing in it so far. I need to stop keeping it so precious, but but but . . .

I finished weaving the yardage I was working on, which doesn’t really look at all different than it did on the loom. I broke down and bought a stand for the loom, and I’m so glad I did. It made the work go much more quickly. Now, I’m trying to steel myself to waulk the fabric.

Finally, I finally started on a gallery wall. I’ve been meaning to hang a bunch of stuff here since the big painting and flooring spree a few years ago, but I kept hesitating. I love it.

Maybe Yarrow will rate a frame of his own.

Oh, how I meant to show you process photos of this project. But I dinna. Because. So, instead, I’ll give you peek into how messed up my process can be. If you don’t want to wade into the crazy, look at the pretty pictures and move along–no one will be the wiser.

In short, I watched some videos and read some articles on foundation paper piecing and was reminded that I found it torturous when I tried it in the past, but that the results could be so very beautiful. Coincidentally, I also decided to finally visit Jinny Beyer’s quilting shop, which is practically in my neighborhood, to theoretically pick up some Christmas presents. Lo and behold, I was able to get some beautiful handmade silk scarves for the women in my family and I picked up a foundation paper piecing kit for a tote. It was on sale, and the samples were gorgeous, and I am a sucker for blues and greens. It seemed like a great opportunity to stretch my skills and make something lovely, and that if I hated it I could donate it and never see it again.

At the beginning, the whole project set my teeth on edge. I felt like I was being hazed. Since it was a kit that involved small amounts of fabric, I was concerned that pre-washing the fabric would leave me with too little of some of the colors to complete the spectrum correctly. I am a pre-washer. It is a nigh-religious dedication. Telling me not to pre-wash fabrics is akin to telling me to stop brushing my teeth every day. Right, so I couldn’t pre-wash the fabrics, but I would live through it.

And, while I constantly piece on foundations, I piece on fabric foundations for stability and to make geometry behave itself. Foundation piecing on paper involves so much flipping and sewing blind and ignoring grain and and and . . . Oh, the humanity! These are things garment sewers don’t do. Grain is holy. Grain must be observed and obeyed at all times. But I would have to pretend to forget about the grain.

And the directions were . . . the construction directions themselves were fine, but the cutting chart and foundation pages were originally made for a different color way and rather lazily adapted for the blue colorway. Considering the price of the kit, even on sale, that truly annoyed me. But I cut, and I muddled through the piecing.

And then came the quilting phobia. I feel incapable of free-motion quilting because it’s too much like drawing and I can’t draw. My attempts to steel myself to quilt this in any interesting manner succumbed to my wussyness, and I stitched in the ditch (rather poorly).

But once I got passed my tantrums, I was smitten. The fabrics themselves are lovely. I wouldn’t necessarily have opted for some of these prints, but the quality of the cotton and the clarity and saturation of the dyes are beautiful. And the spectrum itself was selected by someone with real color theory skill. And the points! So fun! If I could wear the bag as a dress, I would. It’s big enough that I may move into it.

Once I was able to stop agonizing over the bag, I jumped into making up the wool-along afghan. I went through my blocked squares and noticed that I had nine squares that were roughly 10″ and the rest are in the 12″ range. Since those smaller squares also happened to be in some of the softer wools and looked nice near each other, I decided to make what’s essentially a central nine patch, border that with simple narrow lace, and then build out with the larger squares. Those lace bands will also allow me to incorporate the few fingering weight skeins I got for some of the breeds.

(For the curious, it’s BFL, CVM, BFL
Polwarth, Columbia/Targhee, Polwarth
Cormo/yak, BFL/Polwarth, Cormo/Yak with BFL embroidery
I dyed all of the blue squares in this portion of the afghan)

And then–this is where I really lost it–I realized that I’d made a relatively complex knitting construction and design decision without a second thought, did some quick calculations, sketched up a plan, and went for it. All while I was recovering from an agonizing sewing project. That isn’t right, see, because I am a sewer who learned to knit a while ago. I’m not a knitter who is experimenting with sewing. Something has gone wrong in my brain, and I find it uncomfortable. I think I’ll blame the election. And possibly cut back on caffeine.