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Sunday, December 18, 2016

Floating Thoughts

Any thoughts that float from my mind at this moment seem to drown (dead man's floats, obviously) on the way to the page.


And in the middle of that sentence a bubble of an idea emerged from my brain but I continued writing the sentence, ill-advisedly, and the bubble popped, its substance expanding microscopically into space, into the Universes, known and unknown. But now suddenly there appears a topic to consider: chi (qi).


We could contemplate the effect of sound on chi; the universal Ohm resonating through us all; and following on that the role of toning, of one's own individual sounds working on one's own individual energy system. This way of looking at sound suits me.


We form our world views, each of us, from rejected ideas (teachings we were force-fed as children) and from bits and pieces of truth, faith, and ideas that arrive from many sources. We spend our lives experimenting, winnowing, moving on, returning to the agglomerated wisdom that comes into our purview. Each of us develops a creed that determines how we live. It may not always be the optimum yet we continue, continue, changing and growing and (if we are lucky enough or wise enough) heeding the signs that will lead us to the next stage. And throughout this we are full of gratitude for the glorious opportunity to continue on in a life that includes robins, lilacs, linden trees, and snow angels.


Copyright © 2016 Ann Tudor

Sunday, December 11, 2016

Lost and Found

What I see

and what passes through my mind

must be captured on paper

or be forever lost.

Simply forming mental descriptions

is not enough.

Images disappear,

no matter how vivid.

Thoughts turn to vapour,

no matter how insightful.

Unless they are inscribed with pen or pencil

onto a bed of paper,

they might as well not have happened.


Is there somewhere in the folds of my brain

a cranny that stealthily stores

these seemingly lost images?

I'd like to think so.

I'd like to know that in darkest days

I might be allowed

to retrieve the moments

that once afforded me joy.


I'd like that.

And if wishes were horses,

my mother always said,

beggars would ride.



Sunday, December 4, 2016

My Christmas Reminder

I send out this piece every year in mid-December, mainly as a reminder to myself. (You might want to admire the way I reduce my own list of things-to-do by recycling this Scene from the Journey instead of writing a new one.) Here's the message:



This is such a time of list-making for me. The list I made this morning includes "make lists," proving that the high-tension time is well on its way. So I decided to make a new list for myself. Here it is:

CALM DOWN. If it doesn't get done, will the world end? Don't get frantic about trifles (or truffles, either, though I wouldn't mind having one right now).

SIMPLIFY. I envision a Christmas dinner made up of X number of dishes. Well, how terrible would it be if I served X minus 1? Or X minus 2? Or even X minus 3? (But I suppose Chinese take-out is out of the question.)


Bring an OPEN HEART to every encounter.

GIVE to those who are less fortunate. Whether it's time or money that I give, and whether it's a lot or a little, giving will help everyone, including me.

And as a gift to all of you, I offer this prayer from the Dalai Lama:

May the poor find wealth,
those weak with sorrow find joy.
May the forlorn find new hope,
constant happiness, and prosperity.
May the frightened cease to be afraid
and those bound be free.
May the weak find power and
may their hearts join in friendship.

Copyright © 2011 Ann Tudor




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Sunday, November 27, 2016

Pink and Purple during a Farm Visit

Pink is the colour of my nose because I went for a walk and the sun took full advantage of the fact that I was not wearing a hat. My cheeks and nose are flushed.


Purple is the colour of my tongue. I passed several thickets of wild grapevines that held bunches of blueberry-sized grapes. I investigated carefully. Were these really grapes? Really on grapevines? Really surrounded by grape leaves?


I picked one. I smelled it. Peeled back a bit of skin. Smelled again. Tasted with my tongue. Ooh! Sour! But definitely a grape. Having satisfied myself, through this rigorous testing, that it was not poisonous, I popped it into my mouth. Almost all of it was seed—one large seed filling the whole little grape. I popped in another and walked on.


Then I saw, growing on branches intermingled with the grapevines, an even blacker berry. It was NOT a grape, did NOT grow in bunches, and was definitely on a different stem with different leaves. So: NOT a grape. But the first ones were, and I stole an entire bunch and ate them all, spitting the fat seeds onto the mowed path to create the possibility of new vines the next time I visit.


Copyright © 2016 Ann Tudor

Sunday, November 20, 2016

Balancing Act

I am in a strange limbo,

between two stools.


I always liked the metaphor of walking.

When you lift a foot to take a step you are unbalanced, nowhere,

in danger of falling.

When you put that foot down

you are once again grounded and safe

and you know where you are.


And then

(oh, we humans are relentless

in our search for forward movement)

then you lift the other foot

and you are again off balance,

perhaps frightened, certainly unsettled.

And then you put that foot down

and you are safely home again.


We do this over and over as we walk through our lives,

not just physically

but emotionally and spiritually.


And that's where I find myself right now.

One metaphorical foot in the air,

motionless, waiting, a bit off balance.

In limbo.


I am as attentive as a member of the Wallenda family crossing the chasm between two skyscrapers,

balance-pole in hand.


Copyright © 2016 Ann Tudor

Sunday, November 13, 2016

A Question of Balance

I was struck recently by the idea of balance. In our lives—particularly the urbanized, non-natural existence that defines most of us these days—in such a situation it is almost impossible to avoid being pulled, or thrown, off balance. We become too this or too that, eventually recognize this if we're lucky, and in redressing the problem often become too that or too this.


It's good to support and exercise the right brain. I love living in the right brain, which is lucky because I seem to be residing there more and more the older I get, probably because the left brain is failing me. I don't want to remember the house number of the place I am going; I just want to get to the general area and then right-brain it. I don't want to reason or figure out or think. I just want to daydream and piddle and play with my coloured pencils and markers.


Now, how much of the above paragraph is new and how much is who I have always been? How much is just mental laziness? Or pride? A reluctance to recognize how very diminished are my left brain's abilities. I can't tell you, of course, because that would require too much logical thinking.


But I do admit that balance might be better. Much as I might want to sink into the warm comfort of my right brain, I know that reality requires (now THERE are two "r" words I could do without)—that I let the pendulum of my being move a bit toward the rational.


Balance. I am a Capricorn, thus so firmly rooted in the practical that it took years for me to acknowledge another side of me. So how do we balance the spiritual and the earthly? The Buddhists have a story about the monk who carries water as his task. Someone asks what his life will be like when he achieves Nirvana and he answers that he will carry water.


In other words, go for the spiritual, if seeking is your way, but bring it back to the earth, the practical, the real. This is the world in which we live right now, and here we must be. We are here to experience what is: the pain and loss, the joy, the light and the dark, simple pleasures, desire—all those contradictory feelings and situations—and it is up to us to live through them all. While, of course, maintaining our balance.


How difficult this can be. And even in the midst of struggling we often feel that we are doing it wrong. (Though maybe that's a distinctly Western notion—that idea of not doing things right, despite knowing that it's not a question of right or wrong but just of doing.)


I picture a world of beings working through the business of living. Each of us overbalances to one side or another, then straightens up, then overbalances in the other direction. The way is not smooth. But I'm pretty sure that balance is the key.


When next I find myself bent out of shape about one thing or another, I will remember not to let myself be pulled off centre by the vicissitudes of my life. I will accept, welcome, and deal with the highs and the lows, remembering that a balanced load is easier to carry than an unbalanced one.


Perhaps I'm better off keeping these pretentious ramblings to myself. But wait! Surely such self-recrimination is a form of imbalance. A balanced approach might be to say "H'm. Wonder where all that came from." And then move on without chastising myself.



Copyright © 2016 Ann Tudor

Friday, November 11, 2016


Because the house I grew up in had no keys that any of us knew of, the door was never locked. That idyll ended when I moved away from home and discovered the need for locked doors in big cities.


When I was the mother of a young family, keys were the source of much frustration. Toddlers love keys. You can give them a multicolored plastic set of keys and say, "Here, sweetie! Here is your own set of keys!" Well, toddlers may be young and have limited vocabularies, but they aren't stupid! They know full well that those oversized plastic things aren't the same as the keys that you seem to hold so dear. They can tell what's important to you, and that set of keys seems to be one of the really important things in your life.


So the toddler wants your keys. And in a weak moment you give in and let the cute little kid hold your keys. Just for a moment. And then the larger toddler needs your attention, or the baby cries, and you forget about the keys. The next time you think of them is when you have five minutes to get to your ten o'clock meeting. Where are the keys to the car??


Where, indeed? The toddler can't tell you. He's forgotten. You must search. If you are smart, you have learned that the first place you look is in the toilet. And quite often you find them there, drowning at the bottom of the little pool. That's if no reaching hands have helpfully flushed the toilet in the meantime—in which case the plumber will find them for you later, for a fee.


Copyright © 2016 Ann Tudor

Sunday, October 30, 2016

A Plum(b) Line to the Centre

Leading to the center

is a plumb-line of plums,

purple skins dusted with white bloom.


Plum(b) me a line and I'll follow it forever.

As I pace the path I pick up a plum

and sink my teeth into its soft flesh.


I go alone to the center,

following the path

to the dot marking the spot

where it all stops.


The center is this:

when you come to it

even one tiny step more

will take you beyond it.

Copyright © 2016 Ann Tudor

Sunday, October 23, 2016

The Introvert Goes Out

Being mature and pretty much civilized by now, I no longer do this. But for many years I never went to a party without a book in my purse, just in case.


Sometimes I had no need of it and let it remain nestled at the bottom of my owl-trimmed hippie tote bag or crammed

into a fancier, more delicate handbag—depending on the type of party.


But what comfort it gave me to know that I could retreat if I had to. I could find a corner and blot out my feelings by immersing myself in, say, Jay Gatsby's disastrous attempts to manage his own social life.


The dangers of a party were twofold: No one would love me (by which I meant no one would find me interesting enough to talk to). Or someone would be drawn to me but would be the wrong person and I wouldn't be smart enough to know the difference.


The solution, which took decades to emerge, was to recognize finally my own worth and not to look for it in others' eyes. Now I can attend parties without a book.


Well, maybe a Sudoku or two tucked into my pocket, just in case.


Copyright © 2016 Ann Tudor

Sunday, October 16, 2016

Half-Answered Prayers

How can you ever tell if a prayer's been answered—

whether half-ly or wholly?


First, there's the time factor.

No one says an answer has to be immediate.

And by the time the answer arrives

(in whole or in part)

you may well have forgotten asking in the first place;

thus you don't recognize it as the answer.


So that's the time factor.


And then there's that other element:

the answer may not be what you expected.

May, in fact, be "no."

So although it is an answer,

you don't recognize it as such.

And thus you might doubt the efficacy

of your prayers.


But prayers are not in vain,

for the answers are not the point.

Whenever you marshal your feelings

and thoughts and dreams and needs

and wishes

(your prayers, in short, for yourself and others),

you send the message to the Universe:

I am here. I see. I am listening.

I am paying attention.


Copyright © 2016 Ann Tudor

Sunday, October 9, 2016

Poetic Bias

Now let me get this straight.

It is the poets who tell us

that poetry is the ultimate raison d'etre.

Without poetry, say the poets,

we cannot live

or if we do live our lives are diminished,

dull, dimmed.

Only through poems do we soar.


Let's take a moment here to breathe.

Deep breath, everyone.

Do I not detect a conflict of interest?

Is it not to the poet's advantage

to convince us of the power and glory

of her poem?

I sense a bias, a parti pris.

Here we have the poet—

a whiz with words, I must admit—

manipulating those words

in the service of a quite self-serving notion.

Those of us without such verbal fluency

are powerless to rebut the poet's argument.

There's something wrong here.


May I be given the words

to explore this question

at some future time.



Copyright © 2016 Ann Tudor

Sunday, October 2, 2016

Examining the Life

"The unexamined life is not worth living," said some pundit whose name I should probably know. I don't like being told things like this—strictures that exhort me to do this or that. But I do agree with this one. Here's the problem.


By the time you get around to this, by the time you're ready to start examining your life, it's quite likely that you will have lost or mislaid the tools you need for the task: memory, for example, or mental acuity sufficient to hold more than one thought at a time.


My mind is drifting off. Last week my 12-year-old grandson needed help with his math homework, which was about multiplying and dividing in the metric system—in other words, moving decimals around. I used to be a whiz at this sort of thing. My sister Sari was not. She would do some computation and then announce that the answer was either 923; 9,230, or 92,300. Or maybe 92.3 or 9.23. We used to tease her, but no one really cared that she was deficient here because 1) others could come up with an exact figure when it was needed and 2) she acknowledged this deficiency just as she led her entire life: with humour and grace.


Anyway, I felt my own deficiency while working with my grandson. I finally told him, "If you'd asked me this five years ago I could have helped you figure it out. But I just can't do it now."


Well, well. Well, well, welcome to the new brain that resides in my skull. Is this how it will be from now on, or will it get worse?


When I travel on our public transit I have to keep my wits about me to avoid going in the wrong direction. Or I get off the train and don't know which way to go on the platform. Or I can no longer figure out the most efficient route. The whole thing has become a crap shoot. And believe you me, this has not gone unnoticed. DinoVino WineScribe, with the eagle eye of a potential caretaker, is alert to every misstep, although he is circumspect about telling me what he observes.


Withdrawal is another part of this new stage of my life. I often don't want to interact with others. I am increasingly aware of my good luck in having DinoVino in my life. When I talk to friends who are alone, divorced and/or widowed, a number of them without children, I feel their occasional intense loneliness, a condition that was barely noticeable during their productive years, when they were in the work force, but that can become depressing as they feel marginalized, shunted aside by the Action People of the world.


Oh yes. The invisibility thing. The devalued thing. Doctors seem to be particularly unable to hear older female patients. A friend of mine who has more body awareness than anyone else I know recently had a general anaesthetic for a complicated dental problem. When the pre-pubescent anaesthetist entered the room, she said, "Here is the best place for you to find a vein for me," tapping the back of her left hand. He said, "How would you know?" and proceeded to jab her eight times for a vein, leaving her with tears running down her face, her arm black and blue. Finally she said, "If you don't use this spot that I told you about at the beginning, there will be big trouble." He tried that spot and—lo and behold!—it worked.


He hadn't believed her at the start because she was old. A woman. Hardly even there, as far has he was concerned. Just one more anonymous, ignorant female patient.


In many ways I don't mind being invisible. But it is nonetheless a wrench to recognize how peripheral I am to the world—to my children with their busy lives, to my nieces and nephews who have traumas and crises of their own. And I know it is inevitable. Mete and proper, as they say. Certainly to be expected. But I still have to wonder: where did I go?


As I say, I am losing the tools needed to examine my life, both the present and the past. Nonetheless, I try to use what remains to me: time and solitude.


I remember when I used to write wry little essays on hesitating at the gate of age. Well, I went through the gate (there was really no option) and it snapped shut behind me. Now I'm locked in. Or is it locked out?


Copyright © 2016 Ann Tudor

Sunday, September 25, 2016

Moon's Offers

Over and over through time's long flight,

the moon offers possibilities.

Full moon, a chance to let go of

what needs to be discarded:

old ways, held grudges,

rigidity that no longer serves.

Give these to the full moon to disperse harmlessly,

away from you.


New moon?

New beginnings:

a way of living,

a change of view,

another opportunity

to embrace loving rather than tolerating.


Two times a month the moon offers these options:

Let go.


Each requires reflection.

What shall I release?

What shall I take on?

There will be times when we accuse the Moon

of duplicity.

She offered something that didn't come to pass.

But if we are honest

we know that it has nothing to do with her.

We must embrace wholeheartedly

Our choice to let go,

Our choice to take on.



Copyright © 2016 Ann Tudor

Sunday, September 18, 2016


I have taken lately to hyphenating the word en-joy.

Bring joy to.

I find it compels me to action

and, if I keep it in my mind,

I can actually make it happen:

I can fill a moment with joy

simply by remembering it.

That moment, at least.

This is an on-going project.

but here I am remembering

to en-joy this bit of writing.

My spirit lifts.

I think I even smile.


Copyright © 2016 Ann Tudor

Sunday, September 11, 2016

Brain Issues

One day I completely misread the label on one of my freezer containers, imagining that the words "Carrot Soup" actually said "Lorna's Goat" (and don't ask about why I had Lorna's Goat in the freezer).


What lessons did I learn from this misreading? Well, to put on my glasses before I read a label. To engage the brain as I read the label. And so forth.


Where is this leading? Is this normal aging behaviour, or does it signal some major deterioration? And the obvious next question: how do you know when it's time to call a halt?  How do you decide that the slope is downhill all the way, and you'd like to get off the slide before you hit bottom? Whom does one consult about this?


I do want to point out the constant worry about losing one's ability to think and remember. Even those who are ten years younger than I are frantically observing the workings of their minds and leaping to the most dire conclusions on the flimsiest of evidence. I hope that's what I'm doing as well. Still: how can I misread "carrot soup" as "Lorna's goat"?


I am stubbornly refusing to go more deeply into the issue of what to do with the deteriorating brain. See me smile. See me enjoying my life. Don't see the inner workings of the brain—or the fear engendered by those workings.



Copyright © 2016 Ann Tudor

Sunday, September 4, 2016

Faster Than a Speeding Bullet

How quick our minds are! I didn't know this until recently. About three months ago I started doing a very simple breathing meditation. It appealed to me because it is presented as secular and scientific, and it allows you to approach it with no preconceptions and no expectations. You don't have to feel like a failure for not achieving nirvana.


You simply sit for five minutes and breathe, being aware of your breath in, breath out. In order to make it my own, I do two things: first, I incorporate the "stacking" of the vertebrae as described in "8 Steps to a Pain-Free Back." What better time to work on my posture than when I am sitting there doing nothing anyway, right?


The other thing I do is count my breaths, one to ten, then start over. This happens in some faraway part of my brain, one in, one out, two in, two out, while the rest of my mind is free to focus on the actual breaths.


Well, you know how it is. One-in, one-out, what's for breakfast? Did I finish that peach crisp last night? The peaches at the market were great this week but they're gone now and that's the end of the peaches and I didn't freeze any this year because I never seem to use my frozen peaches because I smoothies are too cold to drink in winter but maybe I should have because I'll really miss peaches-–and then I'm at two-in, two-out. I resolve to make it to ten in, ten out without drifting off into will I take a walk today? What's the weather? Maybe I can take one later but I know I won't because I get bored walking on my own I wonder if Adri would like to walk in the afternoon but it might be too hot Dean hates the heat. And I find myself at three-in, three-out.


My point is this: I have discovered that my mind produces hundreds of inconsequential thoughts in mere nano-seconds. I know my counting is correct—and I am having to acknowledge that the mind flits furiously in the space of a single breath. If I weren't counting, way in the back of my brain, I would never have realized how fast (and involuntarily) the thoughts run. I would have supposed that I'd been thinking for three or four minutes here—but now I realize that it's been only the space of a breath, or even half a breath.


Pema Chodron said something about how vigorously our minds try to keep us from being with who we are—and I finally have incontrovertible proof of this. One-in. One-out.



Copyright © 2016 Ann Tudor

Sunday, August 28, 2016

Cussing, Some Personal Notes

Cussing, Some Personal Notes*



Georgia and Nana, sittin' in a tree, C-U-S-S-I-N-G.


Well, we weren't, actually. But I had just discovered that seven-year-old Georgia has strong views on the topic. As we spent an afternoon together recently I experienced some mild frustration or exasperation and I said, "Rats!" Georgia looked at me very disapprovingly and said, "Nana!"




You shouldn't say that!


Shouldn't say "rats"? There's nothing bad about "rats." I can say that.




Well, what about "shoot!" Can I say "shoot"?




This was getting me nowhere. I don't know who has been shaping her mind about expletives. I'm pretty sure it isn't her parents. I even asked her brother, Sam, about it later: "Do you consider 'rats!' to be a bad word?" He said no.


I ended the Georgia stalemate by heading upstairs to pee, but as I climbed the steps I said, "Grumph, Georgia! Grumphy-do!" She made no comment. But I was pretty sure "grumph" was okay because it was the word I coined forty years ago to express myself in front of my own children.


So what was going on with "rats" and "shoot"? Several answers occur to me. The most obvious is that it was not the words but the tone of voice, the actual expression of frustration that she thought of as "bad". "Rats", after all is not a euphemism for some blasphemous or vulgar phrase. It isn't like "gee whiz" or "golly gee" or "crikey!", which are related to Jesus Christ. It isn't like frickin' or freakin'—or my favourite of all time: Gulley Jimson's "For cough! For cough!" It's just "rats"!


I couldn't persuade her. But we'll revisit the conversation when she's a little older. Her views may change.


During my own childhood, cussing was so far from being allowed that I didn't hear certain words until I was in my 20s and I didn't use them until I was in my 30s. When I was 32, for example, my sister Sari, then 28, said "sh*t" in front of me. I was mildly amazed that she was not immediately struck by lightning. But that was the beginning of my allowing myself to say "sh*t" when it was appropriate (fairly often at the time, as I remember).


Then I read a more-or-less Buddhist story about someone who realized that if he had the habit of saying "sh*t" and if he were in an accident and exclaimed "Sh*t!" in response to the accident, then that might be his last earthly word—and the word that would resonate with him as he entered eternity, or his new life, or his face-to-face with a creator. Deciding that shit was an unseemly word for the circumstances, he trained himself not to use it.


That impressed me. So over the years I tailored my expletives to less vulgar ones—though I can still use "f*ck" to great effect, even greater because I use it so seldom.


My mother's expletives reflected the innocent Catholic girl she had once been—and pretty much stayed, in many ways. Under extreme provocation (six kids, remember?) she would shout "Damn-damn-double-damn, the devil's out of hell!" That was as bad as it got.


"I don't give a tinker's dam" was also one of her expressions. Apparently tinkers, as they repaired pans, made use of a d—a-m to keep the molten tin from spilling. So a tinker's dam was an actual implement.


Sometimes she would say, "For the love of Pete!", altered, of course from "for the love of God." "Mike" was occasionally invoked instead of Pete.


We, her sassy tribe, would invariably call her on it. "Who's Pete?" "Do you mean Pete the Tramp?" (Pete the Tramp was a comic strip figure of the time.) More likely, Pete was St. Peter and Mike was St.Michael the Archangel.


"Fer cryin' out loud!" took the place of the unutterable "For Christ's sake" in nice households like ours.


So limited was my experience in cussing that when in my 20s I still wasn't sure of the meaning of "sh*t." Was it #1 or #2? Sometimes children need to know official definitions.


For the time being, I will be monitoring myself in front of Georgia. Not only shall I avoid sh*t, f*ck, c*nt, pr*ck, d*ck, and all modified references to deities, but I also will have to find a substitute for "rats!" Maybe "Oh, mice!" Not very satisfying to say, but perhaps Georgia will accept it.


*Note that in this essay, asterisks are used not just to signal a footnote, as here, but as vowel substitutes so as to protect the innocent. This bowdlerizing was recommended by my business manager, DinoVino WineScribe. If you object, take it up with him.

Copyright © 2016 Ann Tudor

Monday, August 22, 2016

Bright Yellow

Over several days last summer (2015, that is) we cleaned the basement. I helped, but we did it together. Part of it. And then I quit, leaving my poor husband to deal with the endless bounty of empty boxes. They multiply faster than cockroaches—and are considerably bigger.


During the cleaning I came across a square basket of yarn. Now, finding a cache of yarn anyplace in this house is not too surprising. Even though I "got rid of" the yarn fifteen years ago, I couldn't let go of certain beautiful skeins. But what I found was not my good knitting yarn. This square basket (12x12x12") was full to the brim with needlepoint yarn, given to me by a long-ago friend. The yarns are in tiny hanks, about four inches long and half an inch in diameter, each secured with a printed paper wrapper. Their palette is soft colours of olive and dark olive, light blue, mint green, seafoam green, dozens of shades of tan, and various dark blues. Nary a red or an orange in the bunch, though there are three little skeins of bright yellow!


For years I have switched this basket from one room to another. After I found it in the basement I gave it a final move upstairs to the sewing room, where it sat for several months. But then came either the ultimate or the penultimate game of the 2015 World Series, depending on the outcome, and I really wanted to see it.


Often I let the whole Series slip by—I'm too busy, too tired, whatever—in the totally delusional belief that the Series will go on forever and I can watch it later.


I knew from experience that I couldn't watch that game without something in my hands to work on. I also knew from experience that I have no interest in a big or complicated knitting project. Whatever it is, these days it has to be dead simple.


And then I remembered the basket of needlepoint yarns. So I started a scarf. Some 40-odd stitches on a favourite circular needle (not joined—i.e., not a circle; the circular needle is just for comfort). Garter stitch, so I can knit every row—and so the scarf edges won't curl. And the name of the game is this: one after another I would use up the little packaged hanks of needlepoint yarn. But probably not the bright yellow.


As I watched the Royals cream the Giants (a 30-minute bottom of the second, with the Royals playing my favourite kind of baseball: base hits and smart running rather than the long ball), I knitted. Each skein gave me about two inches of garter stitch scarf. And as I neared the end of a hank, I began to muse about the colour of the next stripe.  There is no "design" to this scarf. It's just one colour after another.


Imagine my surprise when I found that after a run of the soft bluish-green, the colour that best suited was the bright yellow. And through the whole length of the scarf (the knitting of which lasted well beyond that World Series and into a number of episodes of "In Treatment") I discovered the delight of punctuating those muted and somber colours with a couple of bright yellow rows.


The most exciting thing of all is that I rediscovered my love of knitting and have since made three garter stitch scarves and used up every inch of that needlepoint yarn.


Copyright © 2016 Ann Tudor