Since picking up Charlotte's Web again last week, I've been really obsessed with it - and mesmerized by it at the same time. I'm amazed at how quickly the rows have flown by. Sometimes, I'll look down in shock and realize that my last lifeline was more than 10 rows back. I haven't had to use any of the lifeline's yet. But I like the feeling they give me. Thinking about not having thI know with the lace it could mean having to start over. Feeling cautious and not wanting to tempt too many fates, periodically, I take time to thread a new lifeline just in case.
In a flash of optimism, I had hoped I might actually finish Charlotte over the weekend. It turned out that I didn't get as much knitting done as I was thinking I might.
The hours just melt into each other, the days floating away, the boys growing up before my eyes. I feel the sands of some giant invisible hour glass slipping through my fingers, and the only way I can keep track of them is with the zillions of digital photos I take - and the many notes, lists, and journals I keep. (I've fallen off of my journaling and writing a bit since having Spencer, but I'm feeling keenly the absence of a writter testament to these months already.) These records - visual and written - are my inroads to memory, my ties with personal history and a past that it seems I can never really "remember" no matter how many times the thought that "I want to forever remember what x feels/looks/smells like right now" flashes through my brain. I look even now at Spencer and know that I've already forgotten how he looked those first few days. I see him now. I know him now. I love him minute by minute and day by day. Yet the way he was yesterday gradually dissolves. The more I try to cling to the texture and resonance of moments, try to force them into the mold of memory, the more quickly they seem to disappear just out of reach.