My oh my, what a beautiful day. The sun is shining, the buttercups have opened and there’s cottonwood fluff drifting on the breeze. I missed my knit on the bench yesterday arriving back in Bellingham after 10 pm–alas, this is now becoming a habit of mine to skip Sundays. I’m not a purist anymore, I’ve lost my asceticism, and with it, I hope I’ve shed some perfectionism. Perfectionism makes me and everyone else unacceptable to myself. It’s a miserable way to pass the time. The most I can count on are a few perfect moments–the leaves on my neighbor’s tree backlit by the morning sun, a luminous green, or the black irises in the backyard like regal old Victorian ladies quivering in purple peplums. A perfect moment is Tansy (the cat I’m sitting) coming out from under a bed to bid me good morning, my fingers sinking in grey satin fur. Besides, do you know what is more miraculous than perfection? It’s two imperfect people loving and accepting each other exactly the way they are. That is the kind of love that changes everything.
At any rate, I keep showing up to knit as much as possible–today only 15 minutes late. The Hiker stopped to visit with me on his way to buy a horn to drive away the off-leash dogs. “I’m looking forward to Heaven because I’m pretty sure there won’t be any aggressive dogs or rap music up there.” He said that he had only two problems to deal with in life–people behind the wheel and off-leash dogs. That sounded pretty good to me, but then I don’t walk all day, every day. I saw the ladies walking club who asked me to please put a sign up on the bench announcing “the unveiling,” when the rope meets the bay. “I forget what cause you’re knitting for,” a man told me as he picked up C.’s black garbage bags of organic grass clippings left out for him on the gravel parking spot. “It’s an art project,” I told him. “Just an art project?” he said. “Just an art project,” I said softly.