Busy Hands Homestead

As I wrap blue yarn with hints of pink and green and purple around my knitting needle and pull one stitch through the other an ocean grows. The sky is dark and the water is reflecting the stars, the moon, the whole universe. There are shimmers of light on gentle ocean swells. The swells rising and falling and swirling. Cradled in the middle of it all is a baby. A tiny speck in the vastness of everything - gently rocked, safe and snug and warm. Materials: 3 Skeins Lion Brand Yarns Wool-Ease, Blue Mist    (the gauge listed on label is 18 stitches by 24 rows to make a 4" square on size 8 needles) size 10 needles short note on yarn choice: I chose this yarn because it is machine washable and dryable and contains 20% wool.  I prefer to work with yarns that are composed of natural fibers, but since this is a gift for a young mom and her first child I figured that utility, affordability and appearance was allowed to over ride my yarn snobbery. (And my favori...

Stitch by stitch the blue yarn is becoming a blanket.  It covers my lap, warm and soft. We have had a lazy Saturday and a slow Sunday. The kiddos are on a train ride to California.  Every chair in the house in a straight line.  Lamb and Tiger, doll and bear, Ivory and Sylvan passengers in one giant adventure. Sylvan drives. Ivory serves tea. Ivory drives. Sylvan is the caboose. I knit. I dream. I observe. I think. I remember. I picture myself crouched down, peering into Ivory's face, my arms wrapped around a tiny Sylvan and scolding her: "When someone tells you that your hair is pretty, you say thank you.  When somebody says Hi to you, you say hi back.  You are being rude when you just ignore people." She looks back at me with tears in her eyes: " But Mama, I'm shy." I was exasperated.  I couldn't imagine that my little girl who seems to have no problem approaching strangers, dominating other mother's laps and leading gangs of child...

I am face down on the floor in child's pose, inches away from the furnace warm air blowing over my body, tears pooling on the floor. Adam took Ivory to the bus stop.   Sylvan is playing.  I am crying.   I have been crying and crying and crying.  I got the day wrong on which I was to deliver the salad to the staff lounge at Ivory's school and it was the last tiny little snow flake to land on a mountain of snow and set off an avalanche.  It is rushing down and nothing will stop the force of gravity until it reaches the valley floor.  I will be the first to admit this is one part hormones mixed in with a million other things:  The feeling of failure that has been building for months.  The feeling that I am okay at many things but not great at anything and not being able to figure out at which skill I am supposed to excel.  The years of sleepless nights.  My constant battle against the natural state of the universe -...

I don't consider myself to be an experienced gardener.   Every year is new and every year new lessons are learned.  This year cabbage, broccoli, Brussels sprouts and Jerusalem artichokes were new additions to my garden.   The cabbage needed more sun.  The broccoli provided us with a nice dense head of green followed with crisp little side shoots for the rest of the growing season.  The Brussels sprouts resulted in cheers when I served them to my kids.  And the Jerusalem artichokes - well they did great, but dominated the sad row of tomatoes I planted next to them.  While the sturdy stalks of the sunflowers reached preposterous heights, the tomatoes barely survived.   I know now to not plant anything close to these vigorous plants.  Rather than having the abundant harvest of tomatoes I had hoped for, beautiful fall bouquets brightened up our living space.  After a few light freezes, a serious cold snap was p...

of Maple Leaves A cold front blew the golden leaves off of the trees.   The branches of the maple trees dark against the sky.  The branches of other maple trees are bare against the sky.   Our maple is a silver maple.  (A lesser maple.) Its leaves yellowing, curling, most still clinging to the branches and some still stubbornly green.   What leaves have fallen are curled, mixed with sticks, not the sort of leaves that beg to be piled and jumped into.  So we rake the golden drifts that have blown into our drive way from across the street, down the alley, all across our neighborhood and pile then in our yard.  Ivory and Sylvan laugh and shriek and jump into the pile and toss leaves into the air. They run back and forth bringing more leaves by the arm full, the wagon full, balanced on the rakes. Their cheeks flush and eyes shine.  I try to remember the last time I heard this much laughter and marvel at the simplicity of...