I'm sitting here with a bowl of chocolate cake and ice cream with my greedy little doggie next to me. I suspect he's not feeling well, but he seems to think that the chocolate cake will make him feel better. I understand completely what he means.
Hubby made this cake for me yesterday for my birthday, which was earlier last week (during my mysterious illness). It's darn good cake, albeit from a box of cake mix which I purchased and instructed him of its purpose. Hey, if you want good cake, you have to put in some checks and measures to ensure its existence.
Which brings me to the purpose of today's blog entry: sensuality.
Almost a dirty word, ain't it? But it's what makes my world worthwhile. The ability to feel, see, hear, smell and taste.
Behold the example below, of five skeins of yarn. Four of Salvia JL fingering weight merino, one of Bernat Handicrafter (did you ever see such a bright green?).
I look at that and revel in the colours. I need to see those colours, and look at them over and over again. And that Salvia merino is lovely and soft, perfect for a cowl or lacy hood for the wintertime. Or a shawl of riotous fuschia, yellow and brown. I've dreamed so many possibilities for it that I've lost track of the plans, while in the meantime, made new plans for other yarns in my basket.
Sometimes, I'll sit and gaze at my basket, hungrily drinking in the colours, reveling in the sensation of each ball. Lots of yarnies will say that yarn is "yummy," and while none of us has actually eaten any (I hope not), I'm sure that if we could, we would taste it. Some of us smell the yarn (squeakybuddha, you know who you are), and... ahem... I have to say I'm becoming one of those who smell it, too.
I'd say my motivation to knit, crochet, bead, cook come from my need for sensuality. My ambition to learn to spin is directly related to this need - to feel the yarn being made, the twist that spreads along the length of drafted roving, to watch it form the single ply that will ultimately become a strand of yarn. I yearn to know how it feels when yarn is being spun correctly.
I suspect that part of this is related to a desire to return to my instincts, and to learn to trust them. I could rely on a recipe or a pattern (and goodness knows that I do), but there's something magical that happens when you make decisions about something you are doing based on your gut, and then have those decisions work out for you. Trusting yourself to plant your garden because you can feel that the chill is gone from the breeze. Looking in at the cake in the oven, and just knowing it doesn't look right, to give it five more minutes. Knowing to keep the door closed when the person who is knocking just seems a little too urgent to get in. It's part of the meditation that occurs when you are searching for nirvana - clearing your head of all the distractions that come into it, and just letting your cells and atoms be what they are meant to be.
There''s something kinda Karate Kid about that, isn't there? Gimme a pair of chopsticks and let me catch that fly...