What might become

Just testing. Trying a few things with some leftover Sunna. Seeing if I can put some stitches together into a little shawl. So far, so good.

This is what I have spent the day on, and I've had a wonderful day exploring stitches, making little charts, and casting on (and ripping out). It's a beautiful day here on the end of Long Island, but it's also August, and there are August People everywhere. I'd rather stay home and enjoy the breeze on my porch.

We'll see what becomes of this swatch, but I think it's on its way to becoming what has been percolating for a couple of weeks. There was a day when I was on my way to Sag Harbor, and before I could do anything else I had to stop into the bookstore, grab a piece of paper and a pen, and draw what I had dreamed up in the car.

That's normal, isn't it?

Untended

This picture says it all. Two months ago, the wisteria was just beginning to climb up my porch railing. Now, it claims my chair.

It's been the same sort of summer as usual: busy. I work long hours, shuffle back and forth between the bookstore and home, and marvel at how time is flying (or complain about how time seems to have stopped). Our website is a full-time job, and exciting. My head is filled with html and SEO, URL path settings and publishing options. My time is spent on updates and order processing, inventory upload files and shipping quotes. Above all, I keep in touch with books. Books and bookselling are still what I do.

There's been knitting. Free-range knitting. Dabbling. I finished my Saroyan weeks ago (Sundara Fingering Merino Cashmere). I'm working on a couple of pairs of socks, a little shawl experiment, and a few other things. It keeps me sane.

I've also been reading. This should not be remarkable, but it is. My reading mojo has been non-existent for a very, very long time. Tolstoy and the Purple Chair is a beautiful memoir by Nina Sankovitch. It's about her year of reading — a book a day, for 365 days — after the death of her sister. In an article in the New York Times, she said she was seeking answers about "how to live with sorrow and how to find my place in the world." I think I knew that books can provide those answers, but I didn't go to them. Nina Sankovitch's wonderful book has begun to lead me back. I'm reading one of the books on her list now: How to Paint a Dead Man by Sarah Hall.

Maybe reading is keeping me sane, too.

 ❧ Rosemary... Rosemary is a furry firecracker. She is fond of stuffed mousies, especially when they need to be attacked at the foot of the bed in the middle of the night. She doesn't keep me sane, but she makes life interesting.

Rosemaryness

Can I come out there?

I'll be good, I promise.

Really.

Wait. Are you serious?

Forget it, then. I'm leaving.

Life is so much better with Rosemary in it. She is a delight, every single day.

And sock yarn that's as green as the summer trees is delightful, too!

Found

Her name is Rosemary, and a few days ago she found the hole in my heart and stitched it up.

We're just getting to know each other, we two, but I know this: a cat who places her paw in your hand, ever so gently, and lets it rest there — that cat is your cat, and you are her person.

Rosemary came to me — along with her sweet name — from ARF, one of our local rescue organizations. Annabelle was an ARFan, too.

I do knit, and I do have pictures, but I will save them for next time. I've been completely consumed by Rosemary, of course, but also by a monumental project at work. I rarely write about my job (I try not to), but I'm in charge of our new website, and I've been busy putting it together. It launched yesterday and I'm pretty pleased with it.  Go take a look when you have a minute.

This Sunday I'll be at SBUMC Cancer Center to celebrate National Cancer Survivor's Day, and I'll be at a special breakfast for those of us who are participating in clinical trials. I'm so happy to be here, three years after my diagnosis of uterine cancer, and so honored to be helping find better treatment for my sisters who will be diagnosed in the future. All the research money in the world (and all the pink stuff we're encouraged to buy) won't get rid of cancer without patients and doctors participating in clinical trials. Just sayin'.