Knit One

When I first learned to knit several years ago something interesting happened.
No, I'm not referring to the dropped stitches, the cowl that somehow became a lop sided shrug, nor that first scarf that still needs the ends woven in.
This something was kind of amazing.
I found that knitting could, for me, be a meditative experience.

Thinking I had stumbled onto something amazing, I quickly googled "knitting meditation" and found oodles of books on the topic.
Like, wow, man.

Now, I'm not what you'd call a particularly spiritual person and used to scorn the very idea. So imagine my surprise as I discovered with each row I knitted I became a little more centered. I could sit down to knit for a while and find that time would sometimes just disappear. I can sit down to knit, kind of frazzled and stressed, and a half hour later, I feel calm, centered, refreshed.

This only works when I'm knitting something simple; anything too complicated still takes too much effort and concentrated thought on the project itself.

I'm in a group right now at my Unitarian Universalist church for which I am supposed to find a spiritual practice. I was delighted to discover that knitting and other arts, including cooking, baking bread, etc., were included as possible avenues for meditative reflection.

As I continue to practice my knitting meditation, I'm gradually finding the idea of myself as a spiritual being may not be quite so kooky as I always imagined.
Go figure.

Somnolent

Praying to the caffeine gods for wakefulness

Today my dogs are at day care and I have the house completely to myself.
My plan was to read, and read, and read some more.
I have chapters to read for a Thursday class, essays and articles to read for Wednesday, plus today's paper and online media, and multiple books I'm reading simply for my own edification and/or pleasure.
But gosh-darn-it I can't, try hard as I might, stay awake.
When I was a teenager I could curl up on the couch and read for hours. I remember laughing at my mom as her head nodded over a book. My dad often fell asleep in his recliner, newspaper or magazine spread open across his chest.
I never imagined I would suffer the same fate.
The day is cold and Iowa-winter gray. The fireplace is blazing and all the cats are curled in their various favorite sleeping spots, napping the day away. Conditions are perfect for an afternoon filled with books.
If I only could stay awake.
I've taken to getting up every few pages or so and walking up and down the stairs; that usually buys me a few more pages before the words begin to swim before my eyes.
Sometimes if I put a load of laundry in or empty the dishwasher I can gain as much as an hour before somnolence sets in and my chin hits my chest.
This isn't a new phenomenon for me. My kids all have stories of the funny and incongruous things I've said while falling asleep reading aloud to them when they were little.
But today I'm determined to make the most of my reading time and have decided to persevere. Armed with a large latte, a bright light, and sitting in the chilliest part of the room, I hope to stay awake long enough to finish my assignments.
Wish me luck, as I just yawned while writing this.