I started writing in this small space. And, then I stopped.
My curiosities and interests are always waning and waxing, coming and going, ahead and behind. And varied. I've found comfort in measuring, mixing, tasting, baking since I was old enough to stay home without a babysitter, just a big sister. And since the time many years ago that I plowed through the beginning frustrations of knitting and the stitches finally fell into place and my fingers found the rhythm, I've rarely been without at least two projects on pairs of needles scattered about, and one or two more in my head. I'm currently learning what it means to keep houseplants not just alive, but thriving. I've now turned into a nursery of sorts for friend's sick plants. And they do very well here, though I'm sure it's less me than it is the immense windows, and therefore the immense amounts of sunshine.
But throughout these loves, and their many incarnations before, and the many more to come, I've had one constant. My love for words. Of words, in words, about words. It's been so much a part of me that I rarely take notice anymore when I arrange the monotony of my daily motions into grand prose in my mind. Making the mundane beautiful, or the beautiful mundane. Arranging, re-arranging, perfecting the placement and intent of each syllable. Reveling in a particularly striking combination, the words finding a rhythm not uncommon to the rhythm of my fingers as they weave a yarn in and out, up and down.
I rarely write, though. Journals remain half-full, at best. Letters die away before the cover comes off from my typewriter. This space, seeming so perfect to me at the start, remains dusty and unkempt. Neglected.
I do not fancy myself a writer. I do not believe that my story is any more worth telling than any other, probably less. It is the crafting of the verse that holds my heart and mind captive. As it is the pulling of the yarn through a loop that I enjoy most about knitting, not wearing the scarf; the kneading of bread that I love, rarely the tasty treat waiting at the end.
And what to do with this love of process and almost disdain for product? Write about it.
K
