Following my lead, Saoirse has decided to learn how to spin in these lingering days of winter. I began a month ago. My first bobbin was spun with whips of kinky springs, undignified rememberences of the sheep’s generous gifts. I unrolled it, scuttled it into a ball, then tossed it aside. But her first bobbin perches here in the sunlight, beside the rocking chair where I knit and sip my morning coffee. And I think it is a thing of beauty, all those colors and types of wools she experimented with. .. Those thick and thin twists, those accidental changes in direction that caused the fiber to tangle about in unpredictable directions. Mine was a shame upon the sheep. Hers is a tribute to it. And yet, they both looked pretty much the same. How funny that I can rejoice in the symptoms of learning that she produces, yet so easily spurn my own. Grown ups. I’ll never figure us out.

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