Amanda

One of the loveliest songs I've ever heard. 

Fake Isle Hat

Noro Kureyon/Cascade 220

 

I don't think it's possible I could like this pattern any more than I do. The instructions were simple to follow and working with more than one color was a lot less intimidating than expected while still producing, IMO, an impressive result.

Since I usually don't knit with wool, I'd never had to block anything before and I admit I didn't have the patience for a proper wet blocking so the hat still curves and curls a bit in places but I tell myself that just adds to the handmade wabi sabi charm, right? Was also a little unprepared for the "unique" (translation: smells like ass) aroma of wet wool.

Will definitely be making this pattern again soon.

 

 

My cousin's oldest child got an apple hat knit from the SnB Umbilical Hat pattern and her newborn got a gnome hat from the same modified pattern. Both from Lion Brand Jiffy yarn.

I need to learn how to fair isle the green into a more organic leaf shape rather than looking like an apple as knit by Mondrian.

Got plenty of mileage from gnome puns, too, which never get old (for me, at least- my cousin might disagree).

 

from The Spiral Diner's website:

This is a bit of wisdom from Arun Gandhi, director of the M. K. Gandhi Institute for Non-violence in Memphis, a non-government institute that teaches the philosophy of non-violence. Here Arun tells of a formative lesson he learned while living in India with his grandfather, Mahatma Gandhi. Give it a read if you'd like.

"We have to remember, when we talk about violence, it's not just the physical violence that we see around us. There is much more to it than just physical violence. And grandfather made me aware of this one day when I was coming back from school and I had this little notebook, writing pad and a pencil. And I was about 13 years old at the time, quite an irresponsible 13 year old. Walking home absentmindedly I looked at the pencil. It was about 3 inches long, and I said I deserve a better pencil. This is too small for me to use. And I was so confident that grandfather would give me a new pencil that without a second thought, I threw that pencil away. And that evening when I went and asked grandfather for a new pencil, instead of giving me one he subjected me to a lot of questions. He wanted to know what happened to the pencil I had in the morning, how did it become small, where did I throw it away, and on and on and on. And I couldn't understand why he was making such a fuss over a little pencil until he told me to go out and look for it. And I said, "You must be joking! You don't expect me to go out and look for a pencil in the dark?" He said, "Oh yes I do, and here's a flashlight." And he sent me out with the flashlight to look for this pencil and I must have spent two or three hours searching for it. And when I finally found it and brought it to him he said, "Now I want you to sit here and learn two very important lessons... The first lesson is that even in the making of a simple thing like a pencil we use a lot of the world's natural resources and when we throw them away we are throwing away the world's natural resources and that is violence against nature. Lesson number two, is that because in an affluent country we can afford to buy all these things in bulk, we over consume the resources of the world. And because we over consume them, we are depriving people elsewhere of these resources and they have to live in poverty. And that is violence against humanity." And that was the first time I realized all of these little things that we do every day. I mean just think about it how many useful things we throw away every day because we have such a lot of it. How much food we throw away every day. How many good clothes we throw away because we have new ones. All of this, every time we throw away something and waste something is violence."

from the Nov. 29th, '06 Oklahoma Gazette by Dr. Robin Meyers, minister of Mayflower Congregational Church

The Gift of Radical Freedom

The vortex of the American Christmas now officially has begun. It started with the mobs of shoppers gathered in the pre-dawn gloom on the day after Thanksgiving. They rushed like lemmings into the big-box stores in search of something-- but what? A video game? This year's coveted toy? An affordable diamond that will guarantee them at least a kiss, if not something more?

Every year people make promises to simplify, slow down, recover the spiritual dimensions of the season-- but it doesn't seem to be working. We will again buy more stuff than ever. Plastic bought with plastic. Out of guilt or obligation, we will bring it home until it breaks, then put it in the garage, then put it into a rental storage unit, then haul it out to the street for the neighbors to paw over.

Finally, it will be taken to the landfill, where everything we own ends up. It will be plowed under mounts of red dirt that look like prairie blisters by gigantic "stuff-dozers" as the seagulls squawk and dive for scraps. The landfill looks and feels like hell for a reason.

We will decorate, and illuminate, and hyperventilate. Unfortunately, we will not contemplate. And that's a shame, because the holidays are a rare parenthesis in life, a moment when our routines are set aside, we gather with our dysfunctional families and we stare across the abyss that separates all human beings from one another, even from
those we love.

In this bracketed space between one year's breathing out, and the next year's breathing in, we might choose to look away from the flat-screen TV for a moment and see the three-dimensional saints and sinners among us: our vagabond brother, our compulsive sister, our weary mother, our distant father.

If we could just look at one another-- really look at one another long enough to see one another, then nothing else would matter. At that instant, Jell-O salad would become a sacrament. Dirty dishes would become temple artifacts. Conversation would become a holy liturgy, and laughter would sound like angels singing.

At that moment, when we glimpse the kingdom of right relationships that all faith traditions point us toward, we taste the radical freedom that is true enlightenment. At that moment, the gifts won't matter. The food won't matter. The air miles won't matter. Not the Xbox, or the botox, or the Lexus in the driveway without spot or blemish. Only the communion of the imperfect, the frightened, the insecure, and the gloriously human will matter. The reason: the object
of faith is the end of striving.

Radical freedom means that your soul is no longer fretful. It means that you know the difference between what you want and what you need. It means that you no longer wish to die in your own arms, and have stopped pretending that you won't die at all.

It means that your thoughts are not God's thoughts, even on your best days, and that faith is not about believing things you know are not true. Radical freedom looks at the world exactly the way it is and loves it anyway. That love is redemptive, and could, if given half a chance, save us all.

My wish for all my readers is a simple one-- may you find the strength to escape the holiday vortex, and get off the stuff train. This year, draw family names from a hat, and buy one gift for someone else. Then let it be. Light candles. Avoid noise. Listen to music. Write notes by hand. Let someone know that they live in your heart.

And remember: The object of faith is the end of striving. That's radical freedom.

Inspired by this Colorful Raggedy Scrap Scarf on Craftster, I shredded/recycled some old clothes, grabbed the giant needles, and came up with my own. Except my version sat around for about three five months waiting for me to bind it off. So, to feel somewhat efficient while watching Heroes, I finally completed it and have Christmas Gift Scarf #2 ready to go.

I'm pleased.