Knitting; a metaphor for life!

www.whatifknits.com/

Knitting; a metaphor for life (who'd of guessed!)

mmmm... okay stick with me here for a minute. I've just rediscovered an old hobby. I used to love knitting as a child but somehow life just got in the way and I forgot all about it for a few years. Having a new baby to knit for is the perfect motivation for me to pull all my crumpled old knitting patterns out of the attic.

I want to teach my daughter some of the basics. Needlecraft is a dying art which is sad because it is something which can give a lot of pleasure, plus it is a worthwhile skill to have.

Knitting is incredibly therapeutic. When my head is tangled with a million different thoughts, all clamouring for attention. The methodical click, click ,click. of a pair of needles just seems to

UN knot them with a gentle rhythm. Before I know it, the frayed egdes of my mind have become transformed them into something much prettier! (And tidier :)

All forms of needlework require concentration, discipline, dedication and patience and because the end result is so satisfying the process doesn't seem like a chore. Rather, I think it can instill some of these qualities and virtues in a child without them even noticing it : ) In this way so much more is fashioned along with a new scarf, a hat, a pair of bootees for a baby. A sense of achievement comes along in tandem. I'll never forget the absolute pride my eldest had on knitting her very own daffodil yellow Easter chicken. Oh that Chicky has been loved so much his stitching has worn thin, his feathers tattered and half unravelled. However, regardless of his well worn condition he will be tucked up,cosy and warm under my daughter's pillow forever that's for sure:).

Another quality that knitting encourages is dedication.

Oh, how many times we have had to unravel dropped stitches and stocking stitched squares so full of holes you wouldn't even catch a fish in them!

Tangles of wool, fresh, soft and fluffy from the market, ending up grey, damp and matted from endless casting on, unravelling and casting on again.

My little girl doesn't give up. She is a determined little soul.

Weekend after weekend she muddled away with her own little ball of wool, on her own in her quiet little corner, cross legged upon the toy chest until, one sunny afternoon her wonderful, completed creation was displayed to all. Swinging like a flag from the masts of two chunky, bamboo needles.

A valuable lesson was learnt the day she completed her first really good piece. A piece worthy enough to make into a birthday present for a precious friend.

A stocking stitched scarf with gartered ribbing in lilac, grey and white Tasseled in pink.

Here's a metaphor :0)... Indulge me ;0)

For knitting you need a pattern, a design. Without an initial set of guidelines all manner of frustrations and calamities will arise. Trying to knit without a plan in place may well derive some very interesting results yes, but not very useful ones. One arm of a cardigan will be longer than the other, the border and cuffs won't match, whatever it is it will almost certainly be two sizes to small and the result of all your efforts? Nobody will wear it. It will be purposeless;)

Knitting is methodical, the results take time to be achieved. The more effort you put into it your garment more elaborate and beautiful the finished result will be. The more beautiful the end result, the more likely it is to be cherished as a keepsake for children, grandchildren, great grandchildren even. It will last and it's use will be of value to many.

These principles apply to so many aspects of life. Sometimes we learn quite a complex, ornate and beautiful pattern from the simplest of designs.

Chinese proverb
One generation plants the trees; another gets the shade.

Whatever is done with dedication and determination, purpose and patience will always become something of value.

Just letting the light seep through...

Just letting the light seep through
as the people pass by.
No soil to put your roots,
no branch to carry you through
the storms. You'll fly,
Though
How you'll fly

(c0) Tomo Yun www.yunphoto.net/en/

Summertime Memories

I am sitting here in the soft golden hush of an early Summer evening. The baby is full and satisfied in slumber beside me. Her soft breathing sounds like the beating of a butterflies wings. It fills me full of peace.
It has been a lovley day here spent in the sunshine. We filled the big paddling pool in the back garden and the girls took it turns to slide into the water trying to see who could make the biggest splash! As you can imagine the lawn got a good watering.
Not that it needed it, everything has been so green this Summer with all the rain we've had.
It was so nice to indulge in a proper Summer day. A day full of melting icecreams, happy smiling faces, sunlight glinting through the trees and dappling the picnic blanket, crumbled cookies and sandwich crusts scattered on the grass and the sound of three squealing girls let loose with a hosepipe.
The little tin watering can we bought the girls was filled with leaves to make, apparently ( a nest for a baby bird, or maybe a mouse.) My three year old is very inventive ;) And our 1 year old found a frog in the undergrowth and as it hopped away to find a more reliable shelter she followed it by hopping cautiously along behind it :0) She is such a little character that one.

Letting go...

Let go.
So hope can fly
Far beyond
The horizons
of your mind


(co) Tomo Yun www.yunphoto.com/en/

A CHILDREN'S PRAYER

Children's Prayers by Ina J. Hughs

A very special friend passed this on to me. I think it's beautiful so I thought I would share it.

We pray for the children who put chocolate fingers on everything,
who love to be tickled,
who stomp in puddles and ruin new pants,
who eat sweets before supper and who can never find their shoes in the morning.

And we also pray for those who stare at photographers from behind barbed wire,
who have never bound down the street in a new pair of shoes,
who never played "one potato, two potatoes," and who are born in places that we would not be caught dead in and they will be.

We pray for the children who give us sticky kisses and fistfuls of dandelions,
who sleep with their dog and who bury their goldfish,
who hug us so tightly and who forget their dinner money,
who squeeze toothpaste all over the sink,
who watch their fathers shave, and who slurp their soup.

And we pray for those who will never get dessert,
who have no favourite blanket to drag around behind them,
who watch their fathers suffer,
who cannot find any bread to steal,
who do not have any rooms to clean up,
whose pictures are on milk cartons instead of on dressers, and whose monsters are real.

We pray for the children who spend all their spends by Tuesday,
who pick at their food,
who love ghost stories,
who shove their dirty clothes under the bed and never rinse the bathtub,
who love visits from the Tooth Fairy, even after they find out who it really is,
who do not like to be kissed in front of the school bus and who squirm during services.

And we also pray for those children whose nightmares occur in the daytime,
who will eat anything,
who have never seen a dentist,
who are not spoiled by anyone,
who go to bed hungry and wake up hungry,
who live and move and have no address.

We pray for those children who like to be carried and for those children who have to be carried. We pray for those who give up and for those who never give up, for those who will grab the hand of anyone kind enough to offer it and for those who find no hand to grab. For all these children, we pray today, for they are all so precious.

The Smell of Rain

fred kofoed http://skychasers.net/page2.htm

A cold March wind danced around the dead of night in Dallas as the doctor walked into the small hospital room of Diana Blessing. She was still groggy from surgery. Her husband, David, held her hand as they braced themselves for the latest news.

That afternoon of March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only 24-weeks pregnant, to undergo an emergency Caesarian to deliver the couple's new daughter, Dana Lu Blessing.

At 12 inches long and weighing only one pound nine ounces, they already knew she was perilously premature.

Still, the doctor's soft words dropped like bombs."I don't think she's going to make it," he said, as kindly as he could."There's only a 10-percent chance she will live through the night, and even then, if by some slim chance she does make it, her future could be a very cruel one."

Numb with disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the devastating problems Dana would likely face if she survived.

She would never walk, she would never talk, she would probably be blind, and she would certainly be prone to other catastrophic conditions from cerebral palsy to complete mental retardation, and on and on."No! No!" was all Diana could say.

She and David, with their 5-year-old son Dustin, had long dreamed of the day they would have a daughter to become a family of four. Now, within a matter of hours, that dream was slipping away.But as those first days passed, a new agony set in for David and Diana.

Because Dana's underdeveloped nervous system was essentially 'raw,' the lightest kiss or caress only intensified her discomfort, so they couldn't even cradle their tiny baby girl against their chest to offer the strength of their love. All they could do, as Dana struggled alone beneath the ultraviolet light in the tangle of tubes and wires, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little girl.There was never a moment when Dana suddenly grew stronger. But as the weeks went by, she did slowly gain an ounce of weight here and an ounce of strength there. At last, when Dana turned two months old, her parents were able to hold her in their arms for the very first time. And two months later, though doctors continued to gently but grimly warn that her chances of surviving, much less living any kind of normal life, were next to zero, Dana went home from the hospital, just as her mother had predicted.

Five years later, when Dana was a petite but feisty young girl with glittering gray eyes and an unquenchable zest for life. She showed no signs whatsoever of any mental or physical impairment. Simply, she was everything a little girl can be and more. But that happy ending is far from the end of her story.

One blistering afternoon in the summer of 1996 near her home in Irving, Texas, Dana was sitting in her mother's lap in the bleachers of a local ballpark where her brother Dustin's baseball team was practicing.As always, Dana was chattering nonstop with her mother and several other adults sitting nearby when she suddenly fell silent.

Hugging her arms across her chest, little Dana asked, "Do you smell that?"Smelling the air and detecting the approach of a thunderstorm, Diana replied, "Yes, it smells like rain."Dana closed her eyes and again asked, "Do you smell that?"Once again, her mother replied, "Yes, I think we're about to get wet.

It smells like rain." Still caught in the moment, Dana shook her head, patted her thin shoulders with her small hands and loudly announced, "No, it smells like Him. It smells like God when you lay your head on His chest."

Tears blurred Diana's eyes as Dana happily hopped down to play with the other children.

Before the rains came, her daughter's words confirmed what Diana and all the members of the extended Blessing family had known, at least in their hearts, all along.

During those long days and nights of her first two months of life, when her nerves were too sensitive for them to touch her, God was holding Dana on His chest and it is His loving scent that she remembers so well.

PERFECTION

Our idea of perfection is not always the same as Gods.

Here's an analogy :) I bought my 18 month old a little wooden train set for her birthday a few months back. Once it was unwrapped and she'd finished playing with the wrapping paper and the cardboard box she curiously began to run one of the carriages along the carpet and up onto the chair.

"No honey, that's not where it goes, look, this is how works."

I beckoned her toward me while trying my best to fix the track into a "perfect" copy of the picture on the cover of the box. Ambitiously (I'm not particularly technical usually) I went to town building tunnels and bridges and aligning the houses, trees and signs along the perimeters all the way from the fireplace to the sofa! I coaxed the train from my little ones tight little fist in order to show her how it was "meant" to work. But instead of playing with it as I thought she should, she began pulling the track apart, piece by piece with a casual air of absolute glee until

a higgeldy-piggeldy pile of debris stretched all the way from the fireplace to the hallway!

With children, it seems, nothing works out the way it is planned. Nothing stays tidy for very long, or still. There is always movement and noise; laughter and tears.

... Life isn't about the superficial, picture perfect end result. It's about the messy joy in the middle.

The haze of wonderment in between the "so called" big events.

Joy is not about CAPITAL letters and FULLSTOPS. It is a descriptive sentence full of pauses, exclamations, questions and metaphors!

Often we compare the montage of our daily existence to a crisp, clean, synthetic version of a so called "perfect" life captured within a 30 second advertisement. Pictures flicked from the pages of a glossy magazine become an ideal worth attaining. But at what cost?

You can't open the petals of a bud, they unfurl gently and naturally of their own accord, and such is life. It can't be forced or rushed through. Everything has it's own time.

Equally, the details which seem so unimportant in the great scheme of things often turn out to be most precious jewels of all.

The gentle way my eldest carries her little sister into the garden to play, the patterns on the bark of a tree, the frayed edges of a leaf, the concentration on my little ones face as she trys to tie her shoelaces, silver cloud reflections trembling in muddy puddles, the smell of rain.

It's funny how the most unremarkable days so often contain the sweetest memories. The most beautiful moments almost always remain unrecorded, they evade capture. Maybe they are just to precious to be held constant.

Perfection isn't a still frame. It can't be composed. It's a moving image swirling with colour.

The little Stream called to the Sea

(c) Tomo Yun http://yunphoto.net/en/

“The Little Stream Called to the Sea”—A Sufi Tale

Once there was a little stream that dreamed of flowing to the sea. The stream started in an aquifer , a huge pool of water underground, but the call of the ocean was so strong that the stream pushed its way through nooks and cracks, up through the earth until it burst forth into the air and began its journey toward the sea. As its waters bubbled to the surface they ran down the hill carving the stream bed into the earth. Sometimes the stream babbled as it traveled, sometimes it gurgled , sometimes it roared . At times the stream traveled alone . Its waters were so clear you could see the pebbles that lined its bed. At other times the stream ran through great lakes , or tumbled over a cliff , or joined other streams to form a river , and then split again to travel alone, but always, always the little stream yearned to flow into the sea.
Sometimes the stream would run fast and deep , eager to reach the sea. Fish swam in its waters as it carried them swiftly on its journey. Sometimes the stream would grow wide and slow, and it would carry boats on its back as it continued its journey. But always, always the little stream yearned to flow into the sea.
One day, just as the call of the ocean seemed to grow a bit stronger, the stream found itself growing sluggish, its waters grew thick with mud, until sadly it pooled into a brackish mud hole right on the edge of the desert. “Woe is me,” thought the little stream, “now I'll never get to the sea.” It tried going around the desert—but the desert was too wide. It tried going under the desert—but the desert was too deep. Still (even with mud in its “ears”) the little stream heard the call of the ocean and yearned to flow to the sea. After what seemed like a long time, as the stream just pooled there in the sun, it began to hear a second voice . “I can take you to the sea, little stream,” whispered the wind. “Come with me, I'll carry you to the ocean shore.”
“How could you do that?” scoffed the stream. “You are only made of air.”
“I can carry you on a breeze,” whispered the wind, “But you must be very brave, for you must let go of yourself and change.”
“I've changed many times,” said the stream.
“But this will be different,” said the wind .
The little stream paused, but deep within, the stream still yearned for the sea. The stream let go… and the wind picked it up particle by particle. At first the stream was scared , for it felt lost, it was no longer a stream but was turned sort of inside out and had become moisture swirling in the sky . The view was like nothing the little stream had ever seen before. Not only was the whole world laid out below it, but it was surrounded by sparkling jewels . Then what had been the stream realized that all those sparkling jewels were parts of itself. Molecules of water, droplets of moisture, sparkling in the light. What had been the stream realized that it was truly beautiful on the inside.
Next the stream-turned-moisture saw that it was not alone, for the wind had whispered to other streams, and ponds, and even to the morning dew upon the oasis. All had turned into moisture. And all their parts were also sparkling in the sun. Together they were even more beautiful, for the sunlight had changed them into all the colors of a rainbow.
Then the little stream-turned-rainbow felt itself falling , and falling and falling. All the other droplets were falling too, until plop, plop, plop, plop— all the droplets ran together into a mighty river which rushed down the mountainside , across a coastal plain, and into the sea, where the waves pushed it back and pulled it forward and the currents carried it far out into the pulsing depths. The little stream was content.
But I understand that every now and then, the wind would breeze by, whispering to the currents in the sea … “Come with me, come with me…” and that the moisture would rise up into the wind and be carried away to start all over again.