The moon is just rising now, over the back edge of our woods. Somehow it never looks so large as when it is close to the horizen. Somtimes the moon looks quite pale and silvery and intense; this evening it glows warmly, tinged with gold. I have always found the presence of the moon to be comforting, and I’m not sure why. I cannot say I have a particular fear of the dark, or a desire to be outside at night when the temperatures plunge to quite impolite depths. It’s just that when I see a huge, fat round moon rising serenly from behind the hill, all seems right with the world. It is wordless and undescribable, but settling and comforting. I welcome it, any time of the year.
I wonder about sore throats. Why is that some of them are so clearly related to draining mucous and others not? Why do some burn, and some itch? Why do some hurt only when you swallow, and others only when you speak? Some feel as though your throat is becoming swollen and inflamed; others feel as though your throat has been sanded, or torn open. Some seem to be comforted by a hard rock of syrup in your mouth, and some seem to have no cure.
The one I have been gifted with currently is the sanded/torn sort, that hurts when you speak, itches somewhat, and seems for the most part to be unresponsive to soothing sorts of things. It is accompanied by itchy inner ears, and swollen glands from the ear to underjaw. I have no congestion, but occasionally a mild cough.
I am resigned to having it; I’m not demanding a cure. But I want to know why. I want to understand what is going on, and what makes one differ from the other.
Also, I would like to know who gave it to me, but that’s more of a vindictive thing than a science thing. . .not that I’d ever really hold it against someone (of course!).
I have a good wool coat—100% cashmere, actually—in the back of my closet, and I’m trying to convince myself to use it. It’s just such a good coat, how can I possibly carelessly wear it in normal life? It sounds like good logic, but is it? If I leave it the back of my closet, will it ever be worn? I don’t exactly have the need for a “good” coat. And what is the use of a useless coat? Which is more profitable and practical—to use a perfectly warm, perfectly fitting, in excellent condition coat throughout my daily-life that includes single digit numbers? Or to keep the coat safe for more appropriate occasions? (I mean, isn’t there a law against wearing beat up sneakers and cashmere coats at the same time? Aren’t you dis-allowed?)
But what it comes down to is—do I preserve the coat, or do I use the coat to preserve me? Was the coat created to itself be coddled, or was the coat created to coddle a living being?
The utilitarian in me says of course the coat was created to be worn, so of course I should be wearing the coat. The cheap part of me says that something so obviously expensive (never mind that I didn’t pay for it and don’t know where I got it from) ought to be kept in good condition for as long as possible.
I feel a little silly wearing such a high quality coat. It is distinct from every other garment I wear. It almost seems pretensious, a fancy jeweld collar on a mutt. Not that the coat is flamboyant; it’s black and conservative and long, and, in my exceedingly humble opinion, could be construed as flattering to me. But when I pulled it out the closet to see how well it fit, it was so conspicous over my faded jeans (with holes in the knees) and sneakers (with faded pink spots where a certain sister of mine took artistic liberties with a marker). That’s my everyday attire; how am I supposed to wear a cashmere coat?
With a scarf.
I should find a few skiens of a very comfy feeling yarn, and whip out a very simple scarf. The neck is rather open, and I’ll be confronted with drafts if I don’t do something.
Except that I solmenly said to myself I wasn’t to be starting any other projects until I finished some up, and by the time I do happen to finish some up, winter will be over.
I could not wear the coat until next year.
But that would be silly; sillier, even, than wearing the coat this year without a scarf and over sneakers.
And! I am very sad and mourning the loss of one of my fingerless gloves I had knitted. I don’t know where it got to, but it isn’t in my pocket like it’s supposed to be. They were the perfect things, and I wore them all the time, till I lost one.
Well, I have been summonded to supper, and it’s my night to wash dishes, so I’m afraid my post won’t even have a chance to develope and congel into something a little more substantial. Perhaps another day. . .