Discover what is already there...

Shortly after we moved up north my brother visited. He brought gifts he felt necessary for our new “rural” lifestyle. An unwieldy rototiller, numerous tomato cages and a brown paper grocery sack full of mystery bulbs he had found discarded on a tree lawn. I puzzled over why someone would just throw bulbs away. Perhaps there wasn’t space to plant them in the city, perhaps there wasn’t the time or the energy to plant them, perhaps they just never got around to it, perhaps the bag was tossed by mistake….. Who knows….. I planted the bulbs –and was so excited to see the following Spring that they were one of my favorites- Pheasant Eye Narcissus. When they come up each Spring I think about my older brother and his wonderful gift for seeing the potential in discarded things.

I hadn’t tossed it out to the curb yet but after being hidden away for almost a year I pulled out this cardigan. Lots of reasons its been languishing in the land of WIP. (on the verge of migrating to the Land of ZZZZZZ)



I got busy- lost momentum- had notes, but couldn’t decipher them- couldn’t settle on how long to make it... The yarn was too precious and I didn’t want to mess it up...lack of nerve- lack of faith…........Well out into the light it came. I tried it on and had David help me measure and settle on the length. I tackled the second sleeve – just three tries to get the lace to match up properly. Was brave and decided on the picot bind off. Wove in the ends and sewed on some special hand blown glass buttons I been holding on to for years.
A weekend of attention - and the Liesl is finished.

I love the silky silvery yarn. I’m so pleased I took into account the comments of fellow Ravelers and made my sleeves a tad larger. Getting the neckline right – not too big – not too small- was just dumb luck.

Its light as a cloud – incredibly squishy soft – I’ll be wearing it often.

"Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heart-ache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. There is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, to discover what is already there."  Henry Miller