measuring time

How you measure time often depends on where you are in life, what drives you mad or wild, your goals or lack of goals. If you are pregnant, time is marked by the girth of your belly that indicates another week has gone by. If you are writing your first novel, time is measured by word count or chapter.

Where I am in life, with my last child away at college, I ¬†measure time in a strange yet meaningful way–by rows of strawberry stitches. When I found this beautiful pattern for a scarf, I decided to make one for Sky. The pattern used chunky wool, a fat hook and boasted itself as a weekend project. But I replaced the wool with fine cotton thread and the fat hook with a slender 0.65 mm stainless steel. The result was the beginnings of an intricate lace scarf made up of delicate rows of strawberry stitches. Unfortunately, my adaptation of the original pattern is going to cost me–cost me months, if not years of time to complete it.

It should annoy me. But it doesn’t. It’s a labor of love* for my daughter. As I crochet, millimeter by millimeter in length, my mind and heart fill up with memories of me being her mom and her being my daughter. The making of this scarf has become my measure of time–not just of the present, but of the past as well. And in that measurement, in my remembering, I feel blessed–very blessed.

*also turns out to be good exercise for arthritic joints.

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