I’m cleaning up —
finding tiny morsels of dollhouse food,
blobs of modeling beeswax
wedged into the rug.
Picking up pieces before I vacuum —
I begin to notice scraps of knitting:
a blanket here,
a scarf there (little, doll size),
a wash cloth,
These bits of her handwork,
these minuscule stitches knit on size 1 or 2 needles (sometimes even on toothpicks) —
there is a certain beauty in their simplicity,
a piece of her captured in the even patterns.
Our dear friend Sally gave the girls this beautiful sewing box, which was hand stitched in the early 1920s by Sally’s mother-in-law for one of her bridesmaids. Amabel and Ellen are in awe of the delicate stitches and beautiful fabric. It is truly a treasure — now being put to use again, filled with tiny tools for their latest projects.
Dear Sally, thank you for your generous spirit and for passing this on to us.
It is quiet. Wallace is napping and she and I are home together. She has taken a break from reading (okay, I admit, she is nearly finished with Harry Potter number five . . .) to sew something tiny in a corner of her room. As I sit next to her, I look up from my own project to see her snip off pieces of an old felted sweater. She loves to create tiny things, but she hasn’t made much with her hands since she fell in love with Harry Potter a few months ago. Was it only a few months ago?
She and I work in the warm morning silence for a golden hour. Later, when I think back, I realize that the peace of our time together shaped the whole day — giving me greater patience amidst the noise and chaos and messes . . . the joys of life with little people.
Grandmommy knit these beautiful balls for him. I think he is feeling quite loved.
My mom continually inspires me with her creative projects. And so I’ve decided to start a series: Susie’s Knits.
This delightful little blue bird (pattern from Itty-Bitty Toys) folds neatly inside its underbelly — transforming into a pale white egg.
The egg fits perfectly its furry, brown nest . . . where it snuggles for a while . . .
Until it’s ready to hatch back out again!
For every Bird a Nest—
Wherefore in timid quest
Some little Wren goes seeking round—
Wherefore when boughs are free—
Households in every tree—
Pilgrim be found?
Perhaps a home too high—
The little Wren desires—
Perhaps of twig so fine—
Of twine e’en superfine,
Her pride aspires—
The Lark is not ashamed
To build upon the ground
Her modest house—
Yet who of all the throng
Dancing around the sun
Does so rejoice?
— Emily Dickinson