the Village Knittiot

Last night the sun set in the West (like it does) and proceeded to bathe my entire neighborhood in the most apropo shade of pink. I have never really been a big fan of Valentine’s Day. I tend to classify it in the manufactured-greeting-card-holiday category, and so we haven’t ever really celebrated the day. Afterall, everyday is about love in our house. Still, I understand the need for celebrations and special occasions. It isn’t what the holiday has become (an excuse to spend money on crappy heart-shaped jewelry and huge bouquets of flowers as proof of your love), it is what you do with that holiday. So, this year I got to thinking (maybe it is all the talk on the Olympics coverage about the celebration of love in Italy and the origins of the holiday) that there are far worse things to celebrate than love — particularly since I have been so fortunate in this area — and I got a little inspired:

I pulled out my cauldron stock pot, simmered up some tasty soup and set the table with candles. We spent the evening cuddled up on the couch watching movies. What a nice way to end any day…

As for knitting progress, I am through the gussett and on to the main body of the foot. I am now starting to hyperventilate a little bit about the pointy toe. I’m not sure what I’m going to need to do in order to get it to curl up a bit on the end, but my mind keeps suggesting short rows… I have NO idea why.

And since Kaizerin posted her picture in the official Team Village uniform, I leave you with a shot of myself in the same. I knit the hallowigs for Kai and myself ages ago. I knew I was going to love her forever when she asked me to make one for her. I also knew one day, she was going to be knitting herself. The rest is history…

I decided to cast one while watching the opening ceremonies; somehow, casting on in the break room at lunchtime just didn’t have the same sense of majesty. I waited impatiently for 8:00 to roll around and the broadcast to start, and therefore, ended up casting on during NBC’s hour-long recap of How the Americans Got to These Games. Argh! Look, NBC, if I cared about these people, I would have been WATCHING the finals and qualifying rounds and competitions that brought them here. Bring on the Exhilarating and Inscrutable Opening Ceremony zaniness, already.

Casting on, wearing my official Team Village uniform, a purple Hallowig knitted by Herself, the Knittiot.

I got off to a rough start—casting on went fine, distributing stitches among dpns, fine, joining ends, uh…how does that go again? Where’s the end on this thing? Where does..why..how come that other end is still loose? What’s all this yarn in the middle? (Color-commentator Ken: “Your event isn’t God’s Eyes, honey. I don’t think that’s even knitting.”) The only thing to do was rip it out and start fresh, and the second time, it all came right together. Mostly, I think, because I paid attention to the position of the yarn ball before I joined the ends into a circle. And we were off!

And so were the organizers of those opening ceremonies—right off their rockers! What was that? About the time the guys with the jet-pack helmets started swooshing around the arena, I gave up trying to knit and just watched the spectacle, utterly gob-smacked.

The tone was set right away, when the announcer intoned, “Torino. North of Rome and Naples, west of Venice and Milan,” and just as solemnly, CC Ken added, “South-southwest of Moscow.” Heh. “Just down the block and around the corner —warmer, warmer! Ooh, no, cold-cold-COLD!”

What the announcer described as a “shaman-like figure” opening the ceremonies looked more like a Power Ranger to me, and despite having the theme “Passion Lives Here”, the whole thing left me pretty cold. I did like the hot-air balloons and the flag-throwing, and I loved the dresses shaped like the Alps worn by the women carrying the signs with countries’ names on them in the procession. They were like the worst bridesmaids dresses in history. “It’s a theme wedding, see? ‘Cause we met while skiing? Look, it’ll be great. It’ll look good on you, and you can always wear it again for parties!”

The parade of nations was pretty standard fare livened up by the NBC announcer’s strenuous objections to the soundtrack. He just wouldn’t let it go. “I’m not sure what all these American pop hits from the ‘80s have to do with the Olympics. And I do mean ALL of them, I don’t think they’ve missed one yet. I wonder what the athletes think about this soundtrack?” I think they think you’re protesting too much, Mr. Announcer Man. As for what it has to do with the theme, well, passion=fire=Disco Inferno, obviously.

Here’s the real testament to how mesmerizing the whole thing was: I cast on at 8:00 p.m., and when the ordeal finally ended around midnight, here’s how far I had gotten:

Torino Opening Ceremonies to Kaizerin: “Ha-ha! Made you look!”

I don’t have a lot of time here, but I wanted to give a quick update. Below is a picture of the giant sock/slipper with the heel turn successfully navigated. I am starting into the gussett and expect to complete that this evening while watching the start of the men’s figure skating. I am definitely on schedule (*knocks on wood*).

For me, I can take or leave the women’s figure skating — too much drama, too many tiny divas — but I really adore men’s figure skating. I love the execution and the style and the strength. There seems to be a distinctive lack of drama and in its place is just solid competition.

Last night I went to bed early and failed to see the spectacular fall of the Chinese pair that attempted a thrown quad salchow. I caught it in reruns this morning and all I have to say is OUCH! I’m so happy that they were able to recover and take a silver. Damn, that’s impressive.

The luge competition yesterday was intense and the number of spectacular and terrifying crashes was a little disconcerting. I was so bummed out that Grandma Luge had to bow out of the competition.

Also, I am starting to seriously tire of the commentators who feel the need to hyperbolize everything to a ridiculous extent (I actually heard one say that an athlete was “going ballistic” as she mildly waved at the camera after completing her run). Also, if I hear one more of them refer to a female athlete as a “girl” I think I’m going to have to write a strongly worded letter to the network (clearly I have an overinflated opinion of the impact I may have on the world of television). I even heard Picabo Street refer to the athletes as “girls.” What is up with that?

It’s amazing what the snowstorm of the century will do for your knitting…

I am essentially creating a giant sock with a short cuff — almost an ankle sock. The circumference at present is about 13″ around. I will be felting about 2″-2.5″ off that to have an opening right around 10.5″ - 11″. This is very experimental and I have been consulting a number of sock patterns and tutorials as I work.

Yesterday, after having completed the amount you see above, I realized that I had failed to slip the stitches at the beginning of each row as I worked the heel flap. So, I ripped it all back and re-knit the entire area. This was a major pain — especially since I had been finishing my ends as I went. Normally I leave my ends until I’m finished and this typically results in a week, two weeks or sometimes a few months before I am ever really “done” with a project. This time, I was going to be clever and avoid the painful and inevitable process. It was an idea with good intentions, but you know what they say about intentions…

As it turns out, it was the perfect weekend to get some Olympic knitting and watching in, because starting on Saturday afternoon, the skies opened up and proceeded to drop 16″ of snow on my sweet little neighborhood. Once the flakes stopped flying, everyone was out and about, shoveling their driveways and walkways or walking down to main street to get a cup of java. It was heavenly. Kids playing, dogs running, neighbors laughing together.

Here is the scene from our front window before it stopped snowing…

I seriously moved away from Central New York to avoid shoveling, but what can you do. We were completely unable to get out of the driveway, so Mr. Knittiot had an unexpected day off and we curled up on the couch together and whiled away the afternoon.

This is the winter wonderland that is our backyard…

I did get to spend some time watching the Olympics, thanks to Mr. Knittiot who dozed off on Saturday evening so I could take in the short program for the pairs figure skating. Okay, so all I have to say is, what is up with the new scoring? Am I stupid? I just don’t get it. It’s like I have a mental block and all I can comprehend is scoring in relation to the number 10. On Sunday when Kaizerin and I were chatting, we both also remarked on Dick Button’s obsession with the sit/spin position and the death spiral. It was as if they were the only two things he knew anything about and everytime he talked about them, he sounded like such a grandpa. “Kids these days don’t know what a sit/spin position is. Why, in my day, skaters got so low to the ground their butts practically touched the ice.” or “What a clumsy entrance into that death spiral. Don’t they teach skaters how to do a death spiral entrance anymore? They ought to be deducted for that.” Of course, that isn’t exactly what he said, but it may as well have been.

I also watched the women’s mogul event and I swear to god one of the commentators used the word “styley” to describe a move made by one of the skiers. When I told Kai that the next day she said, “I heard that too!” and we fell all over the place laughing. She suggested it might be akin to “truthy.” Yup. That’s about right. In the end a very, very deserving Canadian took that gold. Her run was awesome. I’d been rooting for the Norwegian (as I am prone to do), but her run was completely overshadowed by the speedy and adept Canadian.

I finally went to the Olympics site and watched some of the opening ceremonies. They are always a little bit odd, but so unique and compelling. The highlight really was the closing in which Pavarotti sang Nessun Dorma from Puccini’s Turandot. I sobbed like a baby as I always do. I am no Franklin when it comes to Opera, but it does get my heart pounding in a way that is entirely its own sort of magic. It started when I was very young and it is all thanks to Looney Tunes.

I must have been about 7 when my mother’s boyfriend (who was really like my father for most of my young life) suggested to me that if I liked the operatic cartoons (Barber of Seville was my personal favorite) so much, I might like the real operas themselves and he took me to the library where I picked out Madame Butterfly. I loved it. I loved it so much I named my favorite gold fish — a beautiful black and gold fantail — Madame Butterfly. She and Comet, much to the chagrin of George Charles II, eventually had babies, which she proceeded to eat. Interesting.

Anyway, in my senior year of high school, my mother surprised me with tickets to see Pavarotti in concert when he was in town. I liked him all right, but if I had to choose a famous tenor to love, it was going to be Placido Domingo. Anyway, it wasn’t until I saw Pavarotti live that I knew why he is such a beloved performer. When he approaches an audience it really is as if he is embracing each and every person. Warm, maganimous, charming and yes, talented as hell. It was quite an event.

Alright, time to get back to work.

More updates and Olympic chatter later…

As I type this I am watching the end of the men’s alpine skiing downhill event. They’re in the last stretch and 5 guys are going neck and neck. It is so exciting I can hardly stand it! What? I’m Norwegian. Cross country skiing is exciting.

Anyway, I just made myself a cup of peppermint tea, a big pot of spicy vegetarian chili is simmering on the stove and the snow just began falling outside. I am surrounded by yarn and curled up on the couch. Yes, life is good.

So, how’s the knitting? Hmmmm. Yes. The Knitting. Well, it has been a tough couple of days here at the Village. I did manage to cast on, but it didn’t exactly take place during the opening ceremonies (either when they were really taking place in Italy or during the broadcast of them on television here in the states). In fact, I didn’t watch the opening ceremonies for the first time in longer than I can remember. But I did manage to cast on 72 stitches last night and then immediately proceeded to set down my needles and zonk out on the couch.

Today, however is a new day, and there has been knitting and it has been pleasant.

I was reading some quotes by former Olympic champions the other day and I came across one by Dorothy Hamill in which she said, “It’s different today than it was then. In those days we were strictly amateurs. If I had wanted to stay in for the ‘80 Olympics, my parents couldn’t have afforded it.” I find that so disappointing. Also, watching the games, the big money required to pull it all together is so apparent. Everything is a product endorsement and no one misses a chance to connect their company with the Olympic momentum. Did you know that if you drink orange juice you too can be an Olympic athlete?

Even so, at least on day one, I still find the games fascinating. We get to watch along in exhiliration, cheering on the unlikely champions. But we are also watching people who are watching as their dreams die. It seems like it should be such a private moment.

Anyway, back to the knitting… only 15 days left…

We had the privilege of talking to neophyte knitter and first-time Olympic competitor Kaizerin not long before the start of the opening ceremonies; we caught up with her as she was swatching for her event.

Opening Ceremonies are coming up fast—are you just now swatching?
I’m swatching again, actually. We had a late change in the yarn we’re using—the original yarn had too high a wool-content for the intended recipient (delicate inner-arm skin, you know), so we had to swap it out for something else.

What does a disruption like this do to your battle plan?
Well, I’m lucky that I got my hands on the new yarn nearly a week in advance—I’ve had a chance to run it up on the recommended size 8s, plus 9s and—just for fun—10.5s.

10.5s! What are you making?
(laughing) I know! I know! I don’t know what I was thinking—except that, any excuse to get accustomed to the feel and handling of the new yarn, you know? It’s time well spent. The new stuff is a 50-50 alpaca/tencel blend—lovely, soft, and quite a bit more slippery than the wool I practiced with.

To answer your question about my event, I’m making a pair of cabled gauntlets—the Natalya pattern from Savannahchik.

Nice! And in the spirit of these Games, what challenges do the Natalyas present to you?
When I chose this project, I had only done the eensiest bit of DPN work—to finish a hat made in the round. I’d never done a cabled project, either—although I had done a few practice swatches with cable patterns. And there’s the mental challenge of doing a paired project—completing the first sock or glove can give an athlete that finish-line charge of adrenaline, which makes them misjudge how much they need to keep in reserve to get to the actual finish line.

True, true.
In preparation for the Games, I knit up a Natalya—just the one, in wool—to get a feel for the pattern. And I tell you, I got that “I’m finished!” rush at the end of it. I’m really going to have to watch out for that, and pace myself carefully during the games.

Well, sixteen days of Games, two gauntlets—eight days per gauntlet, right?
In an ideal world, yes. But in our world, it’s a tad more complicated. For instance, I’m going to have to bow out entirely for three days of the competition; I’m hosting/coordinating a meeting in Las Vegas for 60 people.

Ouch. And yet, “Woo, Vegas!”
Oh, absolutely. Woo, Vegas! I’m looking forward to it, and I’m taking my project along; I just don’t know, realistically, how much I’ll get done. I’m working 12-hour days while there, and while a plane ride would normally be ideal for knitting, I’m having distressing visions of my DPNs rolling away down the aisle of the plane. So I’m counting those three days as entirely non-competitive; any knitting that does get done will be a bonus.

I remember hearing that you almost declined to participate; is the Vegas trip the reason?
No “almost” about it. When the Knittiot sent me the invitation, I told her it sounded great, but I just couldn’t, in all good sanity, join in. In addition to the meeting, I’m in Crazy Season at work, and I’m in a weekly knitting class—we’re making a vintage-style stole; it’s the biggest project I’ve undertaken to date, and it’s in mohair. Mohair, people! It saddened me to do it, but I had to tell the Knittiot ‘no.’ All that, plus an Olympics project, PLUS co-blogging with her for the duration? No. My momma didn’t raise no crazies.

And then I went and read more about the Knitting Olympics at the Yarn Harlot’s site, and I just couldn’t stand to be left out of all the fun and excitement. Even though I mostly just lurk around other people’s sites, the knit-blogging community has come to feel like home to me, and I knew I would suffer more from sitting out the ‘reindeer games’ than I ever would for being overworked and exhausted. I sent the Knittiot a second note about, oh, ten minutes later, telling her I was IN. (So, Momma, I guess you raised at least one kind of crazy.)

How do you rate the difficulty of your event, now that you’ve had some experience with the pattern?
Well, I admit, the pattern proved much simpler than I expected, but it’s still a pressure item. I hate knitting under a deadline—I’m only in it for the Zen, you know? I like to get into the rhythm of it, focus my hands and un-focus my mind, and just let my thoughts wander. It’s an immensely satisfying and creative mode; it lulls my chattering OCD tendencies and lets the quieter regions of consciousness come to the fore. And as soon as I feel like I have to hurry, that’s shattered. Thus, the approach of meting the work out over the 13 days; I can work toward smaller goals, and hopefully keep a bit ahead of them, so I never feel like I’m playing catch-up.

That sounds like a solid plan. We wish you the best of luck, and we’ll be watching your progress with interest. Before we let you get back to your swatching, one last thing: any thoughts about Beijing in 2008?
(laughing) It’s gotta be bad luck to plan a second Olympics before you’ve survived your first, doesn’t it? I think it’s safest to leave 2008 to itself, for now, and focus on the Games at hand. I can’t even speculate about where I might be in my knitting career by then.

No hints at all? Not even a quick peek into the crystal ball?
All I’m willing to say, at this point, is that once we get past these Olympics, and I finish my stole, I do know where I’m going after that. There’s a lovely ball of dusky pink mohair/silk already warming itself in my project bag, waiting for me to take my first swipe at lace knitting.

Oooh! Please be sure to show us what happens with that! And thank you for talking with us today.
It’s been my pleasure!

Kaizerin is seen here training for her main event

Over the next 16 days, I will be sharing space here at the Village with a dear friend and fellow fiber convert knitter. For some crazy reason my friend has agreed to co-blog about the event, which should make for some hilarious mis-adventure of a sort I haven’t had in a long time.

Check in for daily updates on our progress, setbacks, victories, achievements and whatever else we deem appropriate.

Now, meet the knitletes:

Athlete: Kaizerin
Team: Team Village
Project: Natalya gauntlets
Events: Beginner DPN, Beginner Cabling, First Requested Object

Kaizerin was born in the sleepy burg of Des Moines, IA, in 1969. Descended from champion crocheters on both sides of her family, with seamstresses, quilters, and needleworkers among her near relatives, she seemed destined for a future in the Fiber Arts.

Fate, however, is mysterious, and the early promise held out by Kaizerin’s genetics failed to flower into fiber talents, despite some half-hearted attempts at sewing quilts for her dolls, and her introduction, via cousins at a family Christmas celebration, to a strange sub-genre known as “finger knitting.” A brief, but intense, fascination with rug-latching in her teens resuscitated hopes, but that, too, quickly flared out.

Agonizing, fiber-hobbyless decades would pass before Kaizerin again took up yarn and tools and tried to make something of them. The bleakest moment came when she was suddenly and tragically semi-orphaned at the tender age of 27, the dark time made even darker by her lack of wool to comfort her.

But Fate couldn’t keep this plucky ‘orphan down forever. No! Fate had to relent sometime, and that time would come a mere 8 years after the tragedy that had dimmed young Kaizerin’s life. Two seemingly random incidents would collide to launch Kaizerin into the world of her birthright: the discovery of a mysteriously-abandoned basket of knitting supplies in her attic, and her growing friendship with the notorious fiber-pusher known to the knit-blogging world as the The Village Knittiot. Kaizerin suggested that the Knittiot might make use of the fiber windfall; the Knittiot volleyed the suggestion right back, and that was all it took to throw open the doors to the fiber arts that had long seemed firmly closed. One class in basic knitting techniques later, a dedicated Follower of the Fiber Way was born.

And now, a mere fourteen months after that momentous first class, Kaizerin participates in her first—THE first—Knitting Olympics. She comes to test herself among the best and brightest of the knitting world, knowing the only benchmarks that really matter are the ones she sets for herself. Does she tempt Fate to return to its heart-breaking ways by humiliating her before the watching knitting world? Or will the promise of her noble hand-crafting bloodlines be fulfilled on the field of competition?

Stay tuned to find out!

Athlete: The Village Knittiot
Team: Team Village
Project: Quirky, pointy-toed, striped, felted slippers
Events: Pattern Creation, Felting, Improvisational Knitting

The Knittiot was born in the middle of a blizzard in the deep, dark tundra of Minnesota where the wind howls and everyone is pleasant. Mostly.

Her young, beautiful mother had a delicate constitution that was never meant for the rigors of childbearing. She died soon after giving birth, but not before looking upon the small, shriveled face of her daughter and smiling sadly. Since the Knittiot’s father was living in exile after his attempted political coupe, the Knittiot found herself all alone in the world.

She was shuffled in and out of one sad, cruel home after another when, finally, at the tender age of 7, she was sent to work in the village factory where she was given the unpleasant task of gluing labels onto cans of cooked peas. While the sun never shone very brightly in the factory, it made an appearance from time to time, most often in the kindly smiles of the factory women who took the little Knittiot under their wing.

From the beginning the Knittiot remembers being fascinated with the traditional handwork of the factory women. She recalls fondly how they used to store their work in their sleeves and then, like magic, would draw it forth whenever they had a free moment. She would watch the strange sticks clicking away and the string come together in the most amazing ways.

Hulga Joy, the oldest and wisest of the factory women, was walking by the canned pea line one day when she noticed the Knittiot deftly securing labels to each can. There was something in those hands, a hint of promise. That evening Hulga went to see the Knittiot and brought her some sticks and a large ball of roughly spun string. After teaching her a couple of stitches, she left her to experiment.

The next morning she returned to find the girl fast asleep, entangled in yarn, still clutching the needles in her hands.

Now, it’s been years since her first encounter with what she later learned was called Knitting, and she is about to face the greatest challenge of her knitting career. Will she have what it takes?

Welcome to the Knittiot’s Olympic Village. We did some redecorating (courtesy of the ever fantabulous Mr. Knittiot) in honor of the insanity momentous occasion.

The past couple of days have been extremely busy around the Knittiot household as things have been ramping up for the big event. Tonight, more than 3,000 knitters from around the world will cast on for the challenge of their lives. 16 days. 3,000+ events. This is getting serious.

In the interest of full disclosure, I would like to confess that I have already broken down in a heap on my living room floor, sobbing hysterically cried a little. The games have not even started and I have had my first major mild freak out. I thought that choosing something small to create would eliminate all some of the pressure and all that would be left was my desire to push myself to do something I haven’t done before. Oh, how we delude ourselves.

So, there I was, hunched over my laptop at 12:00 a.m. frantically consulting online knitting resources, performing bad math and wondering just exactly what I was going to be casting on for during the opening ceremonies. Luckily, my sweetie swooped in and talked me down from that ledge and this morning (after some fitful sleep) I am back on track with calculating and planning and only just mildly panicking. At the very least, I will be able to cast on something that resembles an idea, even if I have to rip it all out and start over…

Today, I’m all about perspective. At least I am at this moment. Let’s try to maintain that, shall we?

Yesterday on Birdfarm’s blog, she pointed out this awesome random poetry generator, so I decided to create a summary poem of my birthday post from yesterday. Here is what I got…

the womb of the solar twins — always
retained
a way, My heart is a way, My
mother wasn’t
“I’m thirty.” It
typically affects your
birthday, wishes.
Winter has a time Here Comes
the lights for a
very sunny. Leave a time
that different with my mother seemed so happy Birthday,
even more easily filled with thoughts of the
darkness. craving more light is slightly different, with
my mother has always been fond of the
room over all the Sun.

Thanks to everyone for their wonderful birthday wishes. I had such a lovely day. Since I got to do whatever I wanted, there was, of course, yarn involved. Mr. Knittiot (the now avid crocheter) and I spent quite a bit of time fondling yarn at Rosies. We also poured over some of the books. I was particularly taken with Alterknits, probably because it aims to get people thinking about knitting in new and different ways, and also incorporates some other elements and materials. In the end I walked away with a skein of Manos in this colorway and some plans Mr. Knittiot and I began to craft for an alterknits-inspired knitted/crocheted blanket for our bed. We are going to start creating various squares of different sizes and colors — probably exclusively in Manos — piece them together.

We also got to go to the comic book store where Mr. Knittiot proceeded to be very sneaky and buy me some new action figures for my desk when I wasn’t looking. I tried to take a picture of them in their new environment, but it was blurry (crappy camera) so here is a picture I found of them online:

I’m not a huge Superman fan. I mean, he’s nice and all. It’s really great how he keeps saving the people of Metropolis again and again, but he’s a little too shiny for me. I like my super heroes on the darker side of good and a little more disturbed — like Batman. Truth be told, I tend to go for the villains with far more enthusiasm and geeky fandom anyway. I guess that is why I like Bizarro so much. He is supposed to be the absolute antithesis of Superman, but he is still a bit of a doof (like Clark Kent) and has the uncommonly good sense to be hopelessly in love with the tough, career-minded Lois Lane. Plus, Bizarro just cracks me up.

In other exciting news, plans for the Olympics are well underway…
Be sure to check back tomorrow for some pre-game festivities when all will be revealed!

Thirty-one years ago, today, I was born. I am told I was yellow with jaundice and had to be under the lights for four days. I love that I left the womb in need of light. Back then, my mother wasn’t allowed to keep me in the room over night and the nurse told her she would have to wait until morning to see me again. She has often told me how she couldn’t sleep because she was so excited.

Thirty-one doesn’t feel all that different from thirty. I am not one to put a lot of stock in age, but I will admit that it felt a little strange, at first, to say “I’m thirty.” I am not afraid of aging. I have never lamented the passing of the years or the “loss of my youth” (what youth?). At every stage I have only been happier to collect the years in my metaphorical basket and I welcome each new stage of my life. But thirty signified a passing of some sort. Mostly, I just found it odd to think of my mother as having a daughter who was in her thirties. I guess it reminded me that she is getting older too.

When I was young I had quite a few cousins who were in their early 30s and late 20s. They were all starting to get married and have kids. I always thought their mother seemed so old and I just don’t think of my mother as old. I suppose this is because she has always retained a very child-like nature (which is equal parts delightful and maddening). My mother has a very young soul.

Anyway, this isn’t about my mother. Except, it is in a way. My birth is inextricably linked to my mother and my reflections on this day are always filled with thoughts of her.

In astrology there is a concept called the Return of Saturn. It is believed that Saturn makes a monumental return every 29 years and with it comes a major upheaval. It typically affects your life from the age of 28 through 30. I find this a useful metaphor for all the change and turmoil of the last several years. I felt it begin toward the end of my 27th year. I had this sense that things had changed, I was changing. And it is uncanny, now that I am moving out of 30, how truly things have suddenly calmed down. I have become more settled, more grounded, more confident. I feel that I allowed myself to experience and accept the changes that wanted to come. And now, is a time of peace. Or relative peace, at any rate.

I sometimes like to fiddle around with my Tarot deck during times when I need a little mythic prompting. The cards often provide the launching pad for reflection that I seem to need. So this morning I threw down a birthday reading. I use my own layout that incorporates symbols and numbers that have personal significance for me. The last card I draw is placed over all the other cards — always in the center — and it provides the overarching theme of my reading. Today, I drew The Sun. Not a bad theme for the year.

As I move out of a time that was characterized by a dark, bleak feeling that pervaded every aspect of my life, I find that I am basking more and more often in the proverbial sun these days. I feel that light is beginning to permeate and penetrate. I am more easily filled with hope and my heart is not so heavy these days. That’s a nice place to be.

The Sun is characterized by the solar twins — a dancing pair of children — one male, one female (balance) — in the relative safety of a garden, or what one of my Tarot books refers to as the “Hidden Garden of the Soul.” It speaks about rebirth, about passing out of the darkness. This seems even more fitting as we move away from the solstice and the days grow ever longer.

It is also hints at growth, warmth and creativity. All of which I am eager to embrace as I emerge out of the womb of darkness, craving more light…