What better way to break one's blog silence than by participating in this year's Bloggers (Silent) Poetry Reading?

Morning

Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,

then night with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?

This is the best--
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso--

maybe a splash of water on the face,
a palmful of vitamins--
but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,

dictionary and atlas open on the rug,
the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,
a cello on the radio,

and, if necessary, the windows--
trees fifty, a hundred years old
out there,
heavy clouds on the way
and the lawn steaming like a horse
in the early morning

Billy Collins
from Sailing Alone Around the Room

Mind you at the moment, the idea of throwing off light covers and touching my feet to the floor isn't all that appealing since it's 14 degrees out and my furnace is struggling to keep the house at 62. But besides appreciating the notion of a fresh new day and of a typewriter and atlas awaiting their adventure, the poem reminds me of summer mornings at my grandparents' house. I'd come downstairs to the smell of toasted English muffins and familiar NPR voices coming from the small radio on the breakfast table. Even within the framework of my teenage angst, I loved the momentary feeling of safety and comfort and continuity that those mornings gave me.

Happy Groundhog Day.

Well folks, I've decided that there is hope for humanity after all. (Warning: You'll find no yarn in the following story.)

Last Thursday I went down to Boston for a business meeting. I took the bus, which is every Mainer's friend when going to Boston. The trip down was smooth and uneventful. I had my meeting, met my brother for a nice lunch, and then...wham. Snow arrived. By the time I made it back to South Station, the city had shut down and there was a mass exodus out of town. I stood in line waiting to board the 2:15 bus. And then the ticket guy came out and said, "I have room for four more." I counted ahead of me... one... two... three... four... and then me.

Fifth in line. So I stood as the 2:15 left and waited for the 3:15, not wanting to abandon my prime spot in line. Around us, chaos reigned. All buses heading south were canceled. Angry New York-bound passengers steamed to and fro, yelling, huffing, puffing, and generally Not Helping Things. But the line of folks headed to Maine stayed calm and philosophical. "These things happen," said the guy behind me, smiling.

So the 3:15 arrived. Joy! We boarded. We got comfortable. I took out my iPod and settled in. And then the driver climbed on board and announced that they'd had an emergency at Logan and needed the bus. "You'll have to disembark and wait for the next bus, which should be here in about 30 minutes." We all got off and massed back inside -- my pristine spot in line lost forever. Not something to be fought, I told myself. I just want to get home. It's ok.

Finally the next bus finally arrived. I prepared for a jostle, and I hoped for a seat this time around. And then the crowd ahead of me parted. People looked back in the crowd until they spotted me, and then someone said, "That's her -- she's been waiting here the longest, she should board first." The others agreed and parted so that I could walk up front.

Quite frankly, this blew my mind. And this simple act of human kindness kept my heart warm and hopeful even as we proceeded to get caught in the most astounding Boston gridlock I've ever experienced. The streets were a snowy chaos, cars in every direction, no lanes, nobody paying any attention to the traffic signals, and nobody moving.

We watched our first movie.

We watched our second movie.

I napped as they started to replay the first movie again.

And during this time we barely reached the outskirts of Boston. (The same town from which we'd left, if I need remind you.)

We were all together in this bus with nothing to do but be together. Nobody was fighting it. I listened to people tell their life stories to one another. I listened to them offer advice, jokes, laughter, compassion. I listened to people call home and say goodnight to their children. And as we pulled into the Portland bus station SEVEN hours after we'd left (it's a two-hour ride normally), we all applauded the driver. If our butts hadn't fused with our seats by that point I'm sure we would've given him a standing ovation.

Did I mention I hadn't brought any knitting with me? As I said, there's no yarn in this post.

The allure of a "room of one's own" seems to be timeless and universal. My heartfelt thanks to everybody for your well-wishes as I begin moving into my room of my own.

So far I've made just two significant discoveries about my space.

First discovery: There's a reason they sell double-paned windows.
When it's 12 degrees outside and the wind is blowing at 35 miles per hour, a sparkly winter wonderland spreads across all my windows. I knew there'd be insulation issues with the single-paned windows but was not in a position to fork out four times the cost for the fancier double-paned ones. So, well, this is the result. (Note to self: Keep towels handy on warmer days. All that water has to go somewhere.)

Second discovery: Despite these single-paned windows, the space is snug as a bug in a rug. The heater heats both floors like nobody's business, and it's warm enough for this little scene to play itself out on my windowsill.
See? She's wearing a skirt, that's how warm it is.

And third (ok I've made three discoveries about the space): My most prized knitterly possession has nowhere to go.
It's a cherry umbrella swift I purchased years ago. I love this swift. I use this swift. It needs a place to go. The place where it was supposed to go is too thick. Ken will be summonsed.

In the meantime, I'm loving spending time in this new space and simply looking out the windows. Every 10 minutes the view changes. The light shifts, the clouds move, the pond freezes and thaws and freezes. And, for the last two days, the snow has fallen.

Maine's yearly cycle has, for me, two magic moments: The first time you hear the peepers in the spring, and the first snowfall. It is exquisite, pure, and beautiful.

The problem with posting so infrequently is that it magnifies the significance of every post I do make. (Maybe not to you, dear reader, but to me.) It's a vicious circle from which there is no easy escape except biting the bullet and jumping back in. Which I'm doing now.

Am I the only one who composes endless brilliant blog entries in her mind? I even take great pictures and write pithy captions. But something about the actual execution...it just never happens.

Anyway, here we are at the end of November. I usually fight the arrival of fall tooth and nail. Each leaf that turns brown and falls is cause for grief as I know the long period of bleakness that follows. But the whirlwind of this year has been so intense that I welcome a little bit of silence and solace right now so I can regroup, reground, and refocus my life.

I'm as prepared for winter as you can be in these parts. The onions are in, the wood has been piled, the screens are off and the windows have been washed, the snow tires are on, the water and batteries and lamp oil and extra food have been stashed, the basket of scarves and hats and mittens has returned to the front entry.

And just as the last leaf fell, the last coat of polyurethane was drying on my new workspace. I'm calling it the Knitter's Review International Inc. West Campus. Otherwise known as the Place for Things to Accumulate.

It's located inside the barn that is attached to my house. The only real way to describe the magic transformation of this space is through pictures, because words alone just won't do it. A solitary craftsman named Ken did all the work. While others rolled their eyes and doubted the project had any aesthetic or functional merit whatsoever, Ken got it. We began scheming almost three years ago. He finally tore out the first old rotten board in August. What you see here was completed by one person in three months.



This is the beginnings of the space. Years ago it used to house a cow who, I'm assuming, lived a pretty unhappy life. I felt I owed it to the spirit of that cow to create a place of beauty.








The next step was simple: Put down a new floor and remove the so-called "ceiling" between the cow's unhappy home and the upstairs loft.

Presto, double the space!

The goal was to create a two-storied space with many windows and built-in bookcases upstairs. The barn has three more bays that I didn't touch, so there's still plenty of room for the lawnmower and potting table and snow tires and other stuff that tends to accumulate in barns here in Maine.




Next came the openings for the windows, which was part of the whole reason for creating this space. I love, love, love having windows.





In my infinite enthusiasm, however, I forgot that the windows would need priming and two coats of paint before they could actually be put in.

A firm believer in sweat equity, I grabbed the brushes and began my work.



Ten windows in all. Don't look too closely. My mantra was, "I'm doing the best I can." The razor blade was my friend.

One day in August I was outside painting the windows and a tourist stopped to ask for directions. She glanced at the windows, and at the construction mess in the barn, and asked me, "So... do you make windows?"

It was such a baffling question that I couldn't really answer. So she repeated the question louder and more slowly, "Dooo youuu make winnndows?"

Of course I had all sorts of smart comebacks but only 10 minutes after she'd pulled away. I mean really...

ANYWAY, finally the windows were done and set in their masterful frames. Then came the downstairs ceiling, and then the insulation, and then the wall panels and the upstairs ceiling, and then the actual stairs, and then the trim, and then the built-in bookcases upstairs, and endless calls to the electrician and the heating guy and the painter (I gave up and had someone else seal the floors and wals), but before I knew it, and exactly three months after the first board was removed, the space was done.



Remember that initial view of our sad, lonely cow's old home? Well, here's a new picture from almost the same exact spot.

There are three tall windows on each floor, concealed here by the stairs.










And upstairs, facing away from the tall windows, you have BOOKSHELVES in all their spacious, organized glory. Capped with three little south-facing windows that shall keep my overwintered geraniums happy and healthy until next summer.

After hearing me say, "I really need more shelves" one too many times, Ken had the brilliant idea to surround the staircase opening not with your standard banister or low wall, but with even more bookcases. It's pure heaven.

So this is my new writing home. I'm only sharing pictures of the blank slate -- far more interesting than a space filled with my personal garbage -- but I trust you'll be able to fill it with your own imaginary books and yarns and dreams.

In May I'll be handing over the keys to my old store / warehouse space and moving everything back home. I feel in many ways like I've gone full circle from the early days of filling orders at my kitchen table to needing a separate space away from home to do work and maintain my own life, to finally reaching a happy compromise with a space that's at home but that has a door that I can firmly close at the end of the day. When making your passion your profession, I think it's even more crucial to maintain those boundaries. Otherwise it's too easy and tempting to let your passion overtake your life. Which is fine for a time, but not forever.