Embracing opportunity

Summer's last flower

Time is flying! Summer ended this week, and I realized that I'm ready for a new start, a new season, new, new, new. Summer exhausts me, but Autumn energizes me. Time flies, but it is ripe for change, and (in my head, at least) I'm ready to embrace new things.

One thing I'm doing has until now been out of my comfort zone. At the gentle urging of one of my customers, I went to the monthly meeting of a new group — The Coalition for Women's Cancers at Southampton Hospital. It's a big name for a small but growing group of women who have or had or care about any cancers that affect women, not just breast cancer. I'm looking forward to being a part of this new community.

The CWC is having its first fundraiser this Thursday, and I've spent part of the weekend putting together some knitted things to donate to the raffle. A pair of Hedgerow socks, my Busy Bee and  Baktus scarves, and something I whipped up yesterday:

They're a pair of Maine Morning Mitts in some vintage Sundara Worsted (Briar Rose, picked up at the KR Retreat Stash Lounge a couple of years ago — thanks, Rosi!). Mitts always look so silly when they aren't filled with hands, don't they? Sort of like pantyhose without legs.

My monumental achievement for the weekend, though, was the finishing, washing, and blocking of my Arabian Nights sweater. To accomplish this I had to do two things that those who know my house and housekeeping "skills" will laugh at: wash all the dishes that were marinating in the sink so I could soak the sweater, and clear off my counter so I could arrange it there to dry. It's almost dry (I'm waiting on the sleeves) and then I can wear it and get somebody to take a picture and everything!

Summer's last waves

P. S. Our customer M, who I wrote about in February, died on September 10th. His wife told us that one of the last things he did was go to the beach, just a couple of days before he died. He'd been in the store many times during the summer, still reading, still exploring. I'll always remember our small, quiet conversations which helped me get through my own treatment, and I'm grateful to have shared a little of his journey with him. Rest well, Mike, and thank you.