While the Wind Blows...

 Today marks the last of my three rostered days off, and I’d had grand garden plans—until the wind decided to blow a hooley. It’s the kind of bluster that whips washing dry in record time, then throws in a cheeky shower just to keep you guessing. I’d hoped to spread the last of the pea straw, but not in this gale. Wednesday or Thursday would’ve been ideal, but I was happily procraftinating—choosing yarn work over yardwork and letting the garden wait while creativity bloomed indoors. 

If I turn eastward today, the view out to sea is all serene blues and gentle promise—clear skies stretching wide, as if spring had finally settled in. But inland tells a different story. The mountains are cloaked in thick cloud, brooding and mysterious, casting a gloom that spills down over the foothills. Every so often, a dark tide rolls off those heights, sweeping across the plains and reaching toward the coast with icy fingers. These waves of weather bring brief, biting showers—just enough to keep me safe indoors. Ah, spring in Canterbury… equal parts tease and tempest.

So while I avoided working in the garden on the two previously warm, sunny and calm days what did I get up to? Here's a yarn for you—quite literally. I began work on the latest squirrel project, and what a journey it’s shaping up to be. I rarely dabble in such fine yarns, usually sticking to trusty 8 ply or thicker, and it’s been more than a few years since I wrangled double pointed needles. A refresher was definitely in order.

To add to the challenge, this was my first time attempting a waste yarn cast-on. It started with a crochet foundation chain—then I had to knit into it. Apparently, at some magical future moment, I’ll tug the blue strand and voilà: the blue crochet stitches will all come undone, and a neat row of green stitches will be ready to be picked up and knit onward. Sounds like sorcery, doesn’t it?

As you can imagine, progress was modest. I practiced first with some 8 ply to get my bearings, then dove into the real thing using a leafy green and that glorious Pixie Wine 4 ply. Fiddly doesn’t begin to cover it. I do hope there isn’t a pixie waiting impatiently for these boots—she may need to settle for socks and good intentions for now.  And let the record show: not a single swear word escaped, not even a muttered one. A minor miracle, considering the acrobatics involved. I call that a win.

So that was my crafty contribution to Wednesday, what happened on Thursday?

Thursday was a different rhythm altogether. I had to brave the grocery gauntlet, but it wasn’t all lists and trolleys—I met a friend for a long cuppa and a good chat, the kind that refills more than just your teacup. Errands were ticked off in town, and I didn’t get home until after lunch. A quick bite later, I reached for something familiar and comforting: my scrappy ripple blanket.

Out came the crochet hook, and after the fine 4 ply fiddling of Wednesday, the yarn felt almost chunky in my hands—like switching from a whisper to a hearty conversation. I finished off the fleshy pink ripple, added a layer of chocolate brown, and began a green ripple to follow. I’m still working with odds and ends, so each row is a bit of a gamble. Sometimes there’s enough to finish a full ripple, and sometimes a new shade sneaks in mid-row, like a mischievous pixie swapping yarns when I’m not looking. It’s imperfect, unpredictable, and absolutely delightful.

And now, here I sit—raspberry tea in hand, torn between ripples and booties. The clock’s ticking toward my 4pm chiropractor appointment, and I really should make a start on tea. It’s chilli con carne tonight (you’ll find the recipe tucked safely in the recipe tab above—still a favourite).  Of course, I could always pull out the top secret Christmas ornaments, they are quietly hoping for a moment of attention.

What to do? Ripple on, bootie up, or surrender to the secrets of the Christmas box? One thing’s certain: the wind may howl, and the mountains may brood, but inside, the yarn is warm, the tea is pink, and the creative process continues. In more ways than one.

While the Wind Blows

The wind speaks wildly to the trees,
a language stitched in rustling leaves.
Inside, the yarn awaits, calm and kind,
while booties dream and ripples wind.

The ornaments rest in quiet grace,
each one holding its secret place.
Tea steams gently, thoughts drift slow—
decisions bloom while the wind doth blow.