I am a collector, a gatherer, a hoarder of concepts, hobbies, crafts, projects, cookbooks, Barbies, salt and pepper shakers, yarn, material, cross stitch patterns, plots for stories, wool... I have bins and stashes of this and that tucked away attic to basement. I have stuff, like deer skulls and the odd antler that I've found while walking in the woods, and leaky old Maple Sugaring buckets, just because. There is a project tucked into every room of this house: baby socks being knit, stained glass windows being created, quilts being sewn, a basket of roving to be spun, two banjos leaning up against the living room wall. I have a creative outlet for every day of the week, or just about.
Last Thursday I erranded over to a new yarn store, Iron Horse, in a neighboring town. The store, a temple to the yarn goddess, is serene, and naturally well lit. The yarn is so soft that it has to be heaven spun. The lovely owner offers knitting and spinning lessons. I drooled over the spinning wheels. Oh, to have a wheel to finish spinning the stashed away two sheep worth of wool. And then to knit that lovely wool. Right now when we ladies gather to spin, it's with dropped spindles and over coffee. But to have a wheel... But when, and how? For to get a wheel involves taking a class, and when would that happen? When would I spin? After investing in a wheel, it would have to be a hobby of priority. Priority over stained glass or banjo... Probably not. For I am in deep with both. Over knitting? Doubtful, I'm about to embark on a sweater. I could use another day of the week.
For I am finding I have too many pies and not enough fingers.