March 8, Thursday, 2018:  I’m feeling like I want to have a journaling binge, set all things straight which linger semi-confused and unsolid in my conscience. The days go by at an alarming rate, I so want to plot a plan, yet knitting is all that I seem to be able to manage. I am injured. Only five months ago, October 8, would have found me in my home blissfully immersed in creative projects of wool blending and spinning, hunkering down through the Indian Summer as I waited passionately for the next rain. If I can allow myself the confusion and desolate mental state, perhaps just knitting the next thing is all I should expect of myself, and perhaps all that can possibly carry me through 2018. As I write those meaningful  sentences of best intentions, watching the letters curl, the words mark their place in the lines, the lines on a page, a page in a day, and a day in a week, of a month. Each month which  rolls on by I can recognize as a frame of time where big things can be accomplished, but where the hours of the days, the weeks seem so busy and caught up in the fray, the sway, of emotions. If I could better separate the days, into early morning, late morning, early afternoon, late afternoon, perhaps I could expand my chances to rise out of my sad confusion. Okay, today early morning – take Emma up the ridge road with umbrella, appreciate that I can do that at the very least.