I am hurtling along this autumn, as if strapped to a luge, careening downhill at the speed of light. Must slow down.
Image courtesy of clatterymachinery.wordpress.com
It’s not even Christmas yet! (Though it might be as green and red adorn shop shelves) What’ll happen in a month? Better start digging in my heels…
It is much less difficult to age in 5-year increments. Easier to remember, counting by 5s. Today I am 45 for the third time. And I will be so until I hit 50.
‘There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven…’ Ecclesiastes 3:1
I confess…I love living in a climate that has specifically changing seasons. I can’t imagine myself in a place where it is constant…static…not dynamic. Even the thought of living in a tropical island paradise, where every day brings sunshine and perfect temperatures, might pale over time without the occasional greyness and rain for variety.
To have the fresh newness of spring expand into hot summer days which are then rewarded with cool autumn breezes ushering in cold winter snows is a cycle that I celebrate…yep, even while I’m slogging through the muck. Mostly because I know that at the end of the dead winter dormancy, there will be a pristine spring to start the cycle all over again. It’s that change—that active circle, which fascinates me. I realize, though, there are other life cycles where the circle is fully drawn and completed.
Today marks the third anniversary of this space.
What a gift to celebrate life’s seasons and cycles with you!
But for me, if I were to be honest, the circle is fully drawn and complete.
It’s time to put this away so a new and different season of life can begin and grow and develop.
As with the intricacies of this Celtic spiral, another circle might unexpectedly form, drawing new and twisting lines.
Like springtime, it might bloom again after an extended season of dormancy.
But I agree with King Solomon that there is a time for everything.
Rather than fading away into disinterested obscurity, the time for this blog has come to a close.
It’s with great satisfaction and extreme gratitude that I mark your involvement over the years.
The story is told…this simple yarn has been spun for now…all that remains is to conclude with a very sincere and heartfelt—
Thank You.
Is it too late to turn back time?
I walked into Daughter-Kate’s room yesterday.
She returned from a trip to the mall with her dad.
Her arms laden with new shirts.
She bought these things without my help.
And they’re very cute.
Things I might have chosen for her.
But she decided upon them herself.
I’m not picking out her clothes anymore.
Sigh.
Darn boots…I blame them as the start of this journey to maturity.
She also had a poster in hand.
Her walls, long adorned with puppies and kittens…
…have taken on a new look.
Her taste is changing.
Growing.
And I find myself seeing the young woman she’s becoming.
So, shall I turn back time?
No, I like this new Kate.
I shall certainly miss the little girl.
But I figure, deep down, she’s still in there somewhere.
Just when you think you have it mastered…
We don’t own a television.
And I feel pretty good about that.
Oh sure, it causes a bit of consternation among acquaintances.
‘You mean, you don’t have any TVs in your house? At all?’
And I find I reply, with a smidgeon of smugness—
‘Nary a one.’
But…
(and here’s where my smugness bites me in the bum)
…a television isn’t necessary to waste copious amounts of time.
It’s called Fancast.
Television programs…not on television.
I can watch just about any popular show I want when I want.
With limited commercial interruption.
And I do.
And I waste time.
Just like I did when we had a television.
Bugger.
Okay, so I’m not getting rid of the computer.
But now that I know my weakness, things need to change.
Nothing radical, but a tweak here and there.
Because time is finite and precious.
And there are books to read…
And gardens to plan…
And gifts to knit…
And dogs to walk…
And children to enjoy…
Which therefore leaves less time to drop in on the Gilmore girls in Stars Hollow…
or House in Princeton…
or the CSIers in Las Vegas…
or Temperance and Booth in DC…
or the Epps brothers…
or 30 Rockefeller Plaza…
or…
‘Lost time is never found again.’
Benjamin Franklin
Warning: Post Preface
Okay, so I don’t really reflect on this, the 500th post, but sure, it’s a milestone worthy of mention.
So, what d’ya wanna be when you grow up?
Nine-Year-Old-Son-Alex is determined to be a professional skateboarder, totally unaware that he will not be drawing any sort of regular income and the money he happens to earn will promptly pay for his regular emergency room visits. I’m hoping it’s a phase…
Twelve-Year-Old-Daughter-Kate would like to be paid to watch movies. Okay, so she might become a film critic but that would mean she has to write a review of what she’s seen and she can’t be bothered to do that…too much like a book report. Sigh.
Blahty-Blah-Year-Old-Husband-Will is practicing his giftedness heading a non-profit, assisting victims of crime, educating the public in crisis intervention, and training organizations in the necessity of victim relations. Yeah, it’s important work…tough, but it suits him.
Me? I’m…ehm…a holder of a communications degree with a boatload of office experience and a few rounds at being a personal assistant who gladly made the choice to stay at home when the kiddies arrived, who’s recently dabbled in being a fiber artisan selling her wares on the internet, regularly writing bloggy-run-on sentences. And I’ve never regretted a moment…well, except for the one job where conveniently done through interoffice email, I resigned and was fired at the same precise moment by a non-confrontational narcissist.
When faced with the financial necessity of getting a part-time job, and having been out of the work force for oh, about 10 years, I’ve asked myself once again, ‘What do I want to be when I grow up?’
While I delighted in the creative aspect of craftwork, the solitude that comes with it led me down paths of hyper-introspection and as we know, too much of even a good thing… And for me, the ego that is born into each creation is overly fragile and can get damaged in shipping.
So, being fully prepared in the present economy to sling coffee or burgers, imagine my surprise (and relief) to be offered a position as an historic interpreter (fancy talk for tour guide) at Mount Vernon, one of my favorite places. Yep, it only took 25 years to find a job that remotely utilizes my degree. And while it won’t define my identity, it will certainly bring some satisfaction to my parents who paid for my education.
I’m chuffed…and nervous, as the synapses aren’t firing as quickly as they once did. I’d better start boning up on my colonial history because I begin on Tuesday.
I just don’t get Facebook…does that make me a hermit?
I don’t remember the reason I began a Facebook account. I tend to forget things fairly quickly. I do know Family-Friend-Dan was visiting us. He has a Facebook account. I think I’ll blame him.
Oh sure, it was initially interesting to find college classmates I’d not seen in 25 years. But, once the initial ‘friending’ was done, I found I don’t particularly have much to chat about. I mean…it’s been 25 years…much has gone on in our lives, which just doesn’t fit into a ‘write-on-the-wall’ quip.
Which is probably why I wrinkle my nose at the process. Why do I want to reduce communication with friends—long lost ones at that—into one-liners…or as few words as possible…which would fit on a post-it note…or a bumper sticker. Is that friendship in the current age?
And then I realize that I can’t adequately reduce what I’m doing into a cute witticism.
‘What are you doing right now?’
‘Cheryl is wondering why she’s referring to herself in the third person.’
Such transmission of information is just too cryptic for me to cop onto. Is that what we’ve become?
While I’m dissing Facebook, I might as well be fully disclosing. I have to confess that I feel the societal pressure of these networks to friend people with whom I would have nothing in common in the real world. Is it because as an individual, I want to boost my personal friend numbers? Is that a measure of success? Geesh. I friended a guy who went to the same college. Frankly, I didn’t really remember him, but then again, I forget things. Not wanting to offend and after adding him to the friend corral, I was deluged daily with invitations and challenges and opportunities and Ben & Jerry ice cream thingys…ack, make it stop! So, there was nothing to do but give him the chop from my friend flock.
On top of that, the challenge of not getting sucked into black-hole-vortex of trivial information grows exponentially when I can see not only what my friends are doing, but also what their friends are doing. Who are these people? I don’t know them. But I find myself feeling terrible for not caring enough to read their life narratives. Give me strength…!
I guess I think the idea of having a central location to look for and find people is a good thing…kind of like a universal bar. After finding a long-lost friend, I wouldn’t particularly stay there, but would draw this friend into other, more natural environments. For me, Facebook is the bar…and I realize I just don’t hang out in bars.
So, am I ditching my Facebook account? Well…not yet anyway…I don’t have the courage to be ostracized from society yet.
NB: You’ve given me hope…I’ve pulled the plug. Ah, freedom!
Because I can only use so many oatmeal cookies.
Remember Mr. Laynor? Gentle old man. Veteran. Eighty-four years old. Neighbor. He’s quite an appreciative recipient of our simple friendly act of tossing the newspapers closer to his door. So obliging, in fact, that a little gift appeared at his door, wrapped in a cast off plastic newspaper bag with our name scrawled shakily on it.
Oatmeal cookies. And chocolate chips. So very sweet. We smiled.
To be honest, the cookies were rock hard, as store-bought cookies tend to be, and so they were put in the cupboard until a time when I could find a recipe calling for excessively crunchy cookie crumbs. A day or two later, another package of oat-laden stones were waiting for us. Hmm, I’m seeing a pattern here…
When calling in to check on him, he invariably offers me a portion of whatever concoction he is creating in the kitchen. Juiced up carrots blended with oats. Smashed up sweet potatoes with an unidentifiable liquid. I feel rather mean turning down these offerings, but alas; I guess I’m just not neighborly enough to brave those mystery potions. Where’s Dog-Rocket when I need him?
‘Would you like some cola?’ he asks as his eyes scan the mounds of provisions stacked precariously above, below, beside, and between the other stacks of possessions. ‘Or would your kids like root beer?’
Something has to be done, I realized, after the third package in approximately ten days appeared on the step. I’m not sure where I’m going to keep all of his expressions of gratitude. In a brief instant of inspiration, for which I myself am grateful, I heard myself saying, ‘How about a barter, Mr. Laynor? I don’t have a newspaper subscription and I’d be mighty thankful if I could have your Washington Post to read when you’re done with it.’
If I could have seen a literal light bulb turn on over his head, his face couldn’t have registered the ‘Aha!’ moment more clearly. He promptly tottered over to the tower of discarded papers in search of the most recent edition.
So then, it was all about balancing the scales, giving him a bit of dignity to accept our simple offering of help. In the end we, too, benefit from the exchange and everyone is happy.
Be forewarned, a bit of gush approaching.
More than likely, you will never know the extent of therapeutic tonic you have given by your comments. I certainly appreciate the collective wisdom shared and the support bestowed. The burr is duly removed from under my saddle and it’s time to move on. Even now a new project is wanting to be put on the loom…
It’s a bit of a conundrum, really. A quandary. A poser.
Wouldn’t it be great if everyone played by the same rules—that there was a universal understanding of being equitable and honorable? Oh, but wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.
I’ve been contacted in the past few months by 3 very kind souls who have seen evidence of my one-and-only knitwear design, Tudora, posted on Etsy. What even makes this a topic for reflection is that the premise of having a design published on Knitty.com is that those patterns are, in Knitty’s own words—
“Yes, they’re free for your personal, individual use. You may print out a copy to work with. But you may not print out multiple copies, you may not reformat the pattern for commercial use, and you may not sell them or items made FROM Knitty patterns. The copyright for each pattern and article belongs to the designer or author. Any usage beyond what’s mentioned here must be negotiated with the designer or author.”
And so briefly, an Etsy seller, Karmacrochet, is selling Tudora on her site. After first being made aware, I contacted the seller and shared Knitty’s policies and kindly asked her to remove any Tudora-type neckwarmers. They were removed and I thought no more about it. A few months later, another email came, sharing the fact that Tudoras are for sale on Etsy. Same seller. Sigh. A few weeks later, yet another email stating that Tudoras are on Etsy. After contacting the seller for a second time, appealing to her sense of rightness, I was informed by her that she is no longer using my pattern, but has fashioned her own and that copyrights only apply to two dimensional drawings, not three dimensional products, or some such thing. Hmmm… But then again, Knitty’s policies state that ‘you may not reformat the pattern for commercial use.’ At the end of the day, though, it is up to the designer (that’s me) to ‘pursue violators to the full extent of the law.’ Sigh again.
I’m not a lawyer. Ah sure, I don’t even have a lawyer. I’m not a full-time designer. My one-off design is more like a one-hit-wonder. It takes time and energy and money to pursue these things.
Here is the original Tudora.
Here is what was being sold on Karmacrochet’s site.
Here is what she is selling as being her own pattern.
I’m not sure what, if anything, is to be done. It’s overwhelming and I’d rather spend my time and energies on more positive, creative endeavors. But it’s the principle of the thing…or so I’m told. What would you say?
But for now, I’ll put it away so I can spend the remainder of my Sunday in more peaceful pursuits.
Postscript: Following some initial comments, I had already contacted Etsy and they encourage first contact with the seller in question (which I have done) and then it seems to escalate quite dramatically. Here’s Etsy’s reply—
“This is a serious allegation. Please note that you will be liable for damages (including costs and attorneys’ fees) if you materially misrepresent that a product or activity is infringing. In fact, in Online Policy Group v. Diebold, Inc. a company that sent an infringement notification agreed to pay over $100,000 because the materials were protected by the fair use doctrine. If you are not sure whether the material on Etsy infringes on an intellectual property right, please contact an attorney first.”
Again, attorneys…damages…liability…sigh.
“You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.” —CS Lewis
The gift of the Korean teacup prompted a never-before-pondered realization. I reach for a particular cup depending upon the mood. I wonder if I am alone in this? Hmmm…. I don’t know what it says about me psychologically, but I am sure that the drinks taste all the better for the lovely cup they’re in!
My daily cup of morning cappuccino bliss reposes in this cheerily, daisy-ed, oversized cuppa. It’s a friendly start to each day.
In the evening, however, the cappuccino-shared-with-Husband-Will reflects the warm and pleasant aaah-end-of-the-day-and-the-kids-are-in-bed ceremony.
If it’s going to be a day at home with many cups of tea in the offing, I naturally reach for this, whose mate sits in Holly’s kitchen in Dublin.
If I’m feeling under the weather and need a more medicinal treatment, this warm-yet-down-to-business-striped-nurse stands bedside.
When I’m rather blank and need a dose of inspiration, I find I pass other cups by for the more elaborate Irish artisan pottery cup.
And if ever the Queen or some other royal enters my cottage, I will naturally pull out the fancy Russian fine china cups.
So, after reflecting upon my own palette of cups, I wonder what your favourite cup is? Better yet, why not send me a pic of your favourite cup and I’ll post a mosaic of them! And even better yet, as we’re entering the festive season, I’m spontaneously thinking as I write this that I’ll give a 100gram skein (which is about 192 yds) of Irish Kilcarra aran weight yarn, randomly number generated, to one owner of a cup photograph, anywhere on the globe! I’ll accept emails with pics until 6pm EST Thursday, 4 December, and pick a number that evening. The result will be posted on Friday, 5 December, and the pressie will be enroute that day to beat the Christmas rush! Photos can be sent to cheryl@asimpleyarn.net.
I can’t wait to see your personalities reflected in your cups!
So, after a wee timeout, I can now say with confidence…
I’ve had absolutely no epiphanies about where to go.
No lightning bolt.
No eureka.
No vision.
No direction.
No revamping.
Nothing.
Which tells me something.
Perhaps I’ve been searching for what is not there.
Nor ever will be.
A simple life is reflected in a simple blog.
No catchy monologues.
No flashy pictures.
No groundbreaking designs.
No earth shaking philosophies.
Going against common sense to be wiser and wittier, I plod on.
I like being in this space.
And I’m happy with that.
I’ve missed it, too.
So my sentence is reduced for good behavior.
I’m also thankful there are many encouraging people.
Whose kind words add buoyancy to life.
Right, starting to eulogize now.
Time to go.
Have some writing to do.