Last week I finally managed to go to my LYS, having spent many weeks unable to leave the dog because of an incident involving his paw and a large piece of glass (at least, we think that’s what he stepped on). I couldn’t stay long but I grabbed myself some cotton and started planning to knit myself a top and that’s when I realised.
It’s really spring.
Here in Southern Ontario we had snow three weeks ago but the temperature has been climbing steadily since then. These days it’s edging up towards the twenties (Celcius) and it is amazing.
It’s been a tough winter. I’m not just saying that because I’m the English woman struggling to adjust to the harsh weather either – everyone’s been saying it. It was endless and bleak and so cold my eyebrows froze on multiple occasions which I didn’t know was possible before then. The days were short and the wind was cruel and I was pretty sure it was never going to end. This was it. Snow forever.
Then I bought cotton.
Cotton for me is not something to touch during the winter, though like my colour changes for the seasons, I never plan it that way. It is how I tell that I no longer have full-body frostbite at grabbing my newspaper in my jammies of a morning. It is something that comes with not wearing three pairs of socks to work. Cotton for me (and many others) is a summer fibre and my creative urges agree that it’s coming.
It should be a mere pile of fibre waiting to become something lovely and instead it has all this pressure on it. It’s my symbol of hope for a new season. Being English I don’t trust seasons, knowing they can turn on a dime – I’ve worn huge warm raincoats through entire Augusts before back there. But at least there’s the chance.
Plus, guys, it’s really pretty cotton.