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Rhythmic

Okay, I’m going to spend a couple of paragraphs explaining what I’ve been up to lately, but bear with me: there’s knitting stuff coming up.

On Friday, our orgy of packing and boxing and cleaning climaxed with Moving Day (there’s a metaphor that probably should have been shot in its early development).  I have moved house a nearly-uncountable number of times in my life, and while I don’t really enjoy it, I can’t honestly stay I hate it, either.  I enjoy the process of change, but I find the hard work tiring; I like the chance for a thorough investigation of all my stuff, the chance for a cull, but I find it intimidating to discover just how many possessions I actually own.

The upheaval isn’t a dramatic one, since M and I are moving in with some family in order to save up some money, do a bit of travelling and spend some time with those family.  It’s an awesome transition, and one I’ve looked forward to for a bit; but man, is it a tumultuous process.  And man, how awkward is it when you’re just standing around, directing the removalists where to put everything? I hate that part. (Plus I never know what to do with my hands.)  After getting our bed re-assembled and finding where our clothes (and knitting) had wound up, it was time for a toes-up and a glass of bubbles.

Then yesterday was…ugh, I don’t even want to type it…the cleaning day.  End-of-lease cleaning is the pits.  I don’t think of myself as a messy person, but frankly, after scrubbing all our kitchen cupboards and drawers, I think the word “cesspig” may have a niche in our rich and varied language.  We were freaking exhausted after a day of scrubbing walls, scouring showers, wrestling with oven trays, etc. etc., and we spent the evening slumped on the couch, watching Season 1 of the X-Files (I’m filling in some gaps in my education, now that the Masters is done).

All this lengthy description of my world should sufficiently explain the sense of discombobulation that I’ve been sailing on.  My house has been dissolved; my yoga room is now a mat rolled up and tucked behind a chair; my stash cupboard is now a series of sealed boxes and a basket; none of this is bad, just different.  And then, tonight, I re-commenced work on Purple Flounceypants.  Ah, the lacey tank with the lengthy history.  I settled into stockinette. And I felt the settling: my shoulders relaxed, my back straightened, and I was home.

Knit, knit, knit, knit, knit.  Each one a single, atomic unit.  A steady repetition that makes me feel at home and settled.  My mother has always said that she doesn’t feel at home until her pictures are on the walls: for her, the physical environment is incredibly important, and she cannot settle until it is in order.  For me, I have discovered, the important stuff is pretty portable: my knitting, my laptop, my clarinet.  I miss them when they’re not around, and I feel relaxed when I can stretch out my fingertips and get them.  With every stitch I create, I am more at home.

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