I have many thanks I owe to so many; I am grateful for your caring.
I was resting tonight, re-reading one of my favorite books, Rachel Remen’s “My Grandfather’s Blessings,” when the visual image came to me of sitting in my usual perch in the other room, knitting a large, soft afghan spread across my lap and way across the couch. Instantly I wanted to be doing that. Later, I will. For who, I have no idea yet, but there is an afghan somehow needing to be made: skeins to go through, design ideas to toss around, yarnovers to be wrapped.
But just the mental image comforted me greatly. I had knit just such an afghan; it was for my doctor who had willed me to live last time, when things were so much worse than they are now, who had pulled me through when things were so bad. As soon as I was able to after I got out of the hospital, I put heart and soul with the encouragement of my family and put in stitch after stitch, hour after hour to share with him some of the time on this planet he had made it so I would have. To thank his family as well for loaning so much of him to ours in our time of need.
The joy and stunned disbelief and humility with which he accepted it from my hands meant the world to me.
And that experience I can never duplicate; every moment belongs to itself. But there is a soft afghan waiting to be made and discoveries to commence happening whose beginnings spread out before my eyes as I was reading, and I cannot wait to bring them to pass.