When I realized now was the only time.. to leave.

The yellow in her eye flicked just a minute.
A spark ignited.
I fled.
Under my bed.
Come out now!!
Silence.
Instantly there it was. The searing pain of fingernails digging into my flesh.
Pulling hard.
A throbbing in my head began.
Knowing this was now my only second.. before the first blow.
They were hard,
swift
& intense.
A grab of hair as she skimmed my head with two full fists.
A shove into the wall.
A yank up.
This nearly unconscious body of mine.
Not willing to fight anybody. 

I knew from years of pain, this was more of a chance for her to vent her own pain.
The incredible pains she had suffered at this age.
my age.
15.
The doors of my closet closed and I took a slight inventory of the little possessions I owned.
The smurf collection, torn jeans, favorite shirts, the cute pair of flip flops that I lived in. 

There were 2 albums strewn carelessly on the floor.
Full of pictures nostalgic
& happy.
All this filled a very small back pack and still I kept it on the floor..

Hours passed before I could sense it was time to open my door.

She was working.
I was hungry..

but were there restraints now on my door?
I gingerly, ever so quietly, inched my way to the door.
It creaked and I stopped in fear.
Hearing no remorse for these actions,
the door opened slightly..
by my own hand.
Dinner had been served, dishes were needing to be washed.
I filled the sink.
Listening to the water gush from the tap, the soap bubbles rose.
This was quiet time for me.
No one ever wanted this job, and I had no desire to wash laundry.
We had no washer and it was a days worth of scrubbing each article one by one.
She left you no food. My sister sneered.
It's ok.
Are you back talking your sister?
He grabbed my throat, and I could feel her leering at me.
The knives were arms reach, each one glistening,
I knew this was my last chance to retreat, to suppress it all.
Again.
Slurring in my face with sweat beading on his brow from the hours of lager, smoke & gambling. She is my daughter & you are a whore.
I glance back to my peripheral view and his friend is cowering at the gambling table. Waiting for more tobacco to roll.
Not wanting to interfere, he stares wide eyed as I wait. 

Wait for him to release the grip from my throat. 

No words escape my mouth. 

But you could see the condemnation his friend felt from across the room.
Me who called him out of my bed for groping at the early hours of 3 am.
Me who knew every move, every strike against me and still I stood my ground.
If he was going to knock me down I was going to stand back up.

That tiny small backpack & I jumped out a window and breathed a sigh of freedom. 

The day I realized now was the only time.. 

to leave.

Whirlwind

One, free, seventy..

I open my eyes.

The puppies are no where in sight.

Loud crashes are coming from the cabin and I start running in circles. 

The faster I run, the quieter it feels.

I stop. And wait.

Boots (whisper) Buffy. Come play with me. 

Our yard is wide and green. 

We're nestled in the middle of a forest that reaches just so far, then opens up to a lake.

With water as far as I can see. 

No neighbors. 

No visitors. 

No friends. 

All I know is my Mommy. 

And a man: whom I call daddy.

But he never wants me to play around him. 

He drinks from a big bottle. 

And when it's empty, it smashes on the ground. 

I try my best not to hurt myself. 

But I fall all the time. 

Mommy tells me I am not allowed to play with my cousins because they don't open presents. 

That we talk different them every day of the week.

But thats ok.

I'm only allowed to open presents when Grandma and Grandpa give them to me, anyways. 

Alicia! 

Here I am. 

Did you hear me calling you?! 

No.

Why is he so mad?

He grabs me by the jean jacket and carries me all the way to their big bed. 

You come running when I call, you hear me! 

All I remember is: Spank spank spank - until I fall asleep. 

When I wake up Mommy has made some soup.

But it's cold now, because it's been waiting so long for me. 

She's all different colors. 

A pretty rainbow. 

I can't stand, so she carries me. 

I smell her in the place of her neck that I love so much.

The familliar smells of smoke and a strong smell that burns my nose. 

But it doesn't matter. 

I haven't had a hug since the last time I remember that 'he' was gone. 

Alicia do you remember your Uncle Bob?

I nod in a haze.

He's going to live with us now. 

Why? 

Just because. 

No more questions. 

But I want to ask. And I want to eat. 

My tummy is sore and mommy won't look at my eyes. 

I go to sleep and there is so much noise. 

I wake up but I am not allowed out of my room. 

The dolls are my friends. 

It's time to go potty but I have no where to pee. 

There is a pot in the corner that I try to sit on but it tips over and I pee on my leg. 

Trying not to get in trouble I sit so still just to wait...

and hope for food. 

There is nobody coming for me. 

I hear, my name. 

Where is Alicia? 

She's in her bedroom. 

It's 2 o'clock in the afternoon. 

Crash bang, scream. 

The door opens with a bang and my Uncle checks to see if I need food. 

I don't know what to do so I just sit there trying not to make a sound. 

Just a second goes by and I sniff. Huh? Was I sleeping?

Someone is hovering over me and spit is falling on my face. 

We're going for a drive. 

I try to stand but my legs hurt from sitting and they sting. 

They take turns carrying me outside to the car. Just my Mommy & 'him' in the front. 

They stop at a red light and Mommy opens my door, 

her door, and the trunk all at the same time. 

She grabs me with one hand and the two suitcases in the other. 

And she runs. 

Down the hill into a ravine. 

I see uncle waiting for us. He takes the suitcases and runs another way. 

She takes me and we hide under a car. 

We run 

and stop 

and hide behind buildings. 

There is a car revving up and down the streets.  

I remember french fries.

I remember a big bus.

I remember falling into someone's arms as I tripped down the stairs. 

All In a daze.

Into my Uncle Frank's arms.

His blue punch buggy was waiting to drive us to our new home.

My Uncles had saved me.

They saved us.

Shifting Perspective

Sometimes in the quiet abyss of an empty house, while everyone is gone to their weekly responsibilities, I'm left.. Alone. 

All chores accomplished, all errands done or on hold. With more than the click of methodically wrapping yarn back and forth between two or more knitting needles.

It is often then that poignant remnants of past conversations echo in my mind. One memory burns with the dimly lit candle of my thoughts.

Gently she placed her hand on my hand, that laid haphazardly on my lap. She waited a very long 10 seconds and simply stated: Alicia. The acknowledgment of my name will always grab my attention, and I promptly stopped gazing into the abyss of my lap. I looked up, directly in her eyes. She softly phrases "this is going to take a long time. You are a recovering bulimic." The words were bricks on my already teetering tower of insecurities. She had placed this title right back on the starting line, and I felt exposed. Ready to bolt towards the bushes on the side of the race track. But no.. This time it was different. She wasn't a teacher, or a guidance counsellor. Nor was she a social worker, a pastor, a boss or a co-worker. She was known by no relation ties at all, I had just met her. And the respect grew as tears danced around the brim of my eyes. A naturopath first. One who would guide me to seek professional help from a therapist.

So began my start and stop process that lasted (now closer to) 16 years. At my lowest weight I was petrified of gaining just 1lb. At my highest weight (after gaining 110lbs) I kept building walls around my emotions. One that only I could hide behind even when help was readily available. I don't know when I realized that food was comfort. Maybe it was so many years past hiding in my closet when arguments escalated. Or when I would come home to an empty home and find home baked bread waiting to be served. Perhaps food had a special place in my heart after returning from Vancouver Island. I had been living with my Grandparents for the Summer of 1987. Any food I could have ever imagined or longed for was right ready for my devouring. 

The summer I was 10. 

And gained 25lbs.

This story is more of an iceberg melting. I've cried through the reality of keeping my closest friends from knowing my deepest struggles. Nightmares actually. 

Last year I decided it was time. 

One day at a time. 

When I started this newfound journey I was easily discouraged and felt all the familiar struggles of taking this all in day by day. I grew up with food anxieties that got worse as I was older (albeit without the childhood eating disorder) and often would go a whole day without eating because I couldn't have something I liked or the food triggered me being too full the night before. Opposite of a food addiction. I wasn't eating enough so my body was always storing. As of today I have lost 115 inches and officially 40lb. The inches lost this year and the pounds over the course of this decade. 

Honesty, transparency and the the fight on all mental battlefields, is a teetering point. What I had fought for behind ironclad emotional walls was none other than:

Freedom!

In the last 28 years, I’ve failed at weight loss no less than.. Ok. 1 million times. 

Sweets and I — we battle often. It’s only in the past year that I’ve found freedom to not avoid what may seem like a titanic sinking. I find myself finding peace, on this slow sailboat to a better port of landing. Wherever that is all I know is I will keep following that way, forward motion to a better place.

Moving on, moving forward, is the way you get unstuck. It’s also the way you lose weight mindfully without losing your mind completely. 

Do you ever feel a desperate sense that " its just right there, right in front of us, we’ve got to eat it all now? (And then, never again.)

Those secrets where you find yourself wondering why there is a still present want. A still unmet want. If you’ve ever convinced yourself that a whole box of chocolate bars is not enough, or even two cupcakes will be better than one. That is when you might finish, realizing you don't remember even starting. In those moments have you ever found yourself, ((wondering why)) feeling a sense of loss & doom that the 'treat' didn’t do what you thought it would?

Because I have. In unrelenting ways. That is; too many times to count, I am ravenous. 

What does it all mean, and what does this really say?

It says that I’m not hungry. Not for food.

I have this wanting. So many wantings. We all do. And I grew up really believing, and still kind of believing to this day, that food is a way, the way, to satisfy desires and cravings. It has nothing to do with my logical, rational brain; it’s so deep within me that undoing it feels at times impossible. And only slowly, I am changing that. I’ve got to. You’ve got to.

Shifting perspective, is a challenge. There will always be food and choices. Let’s keep our healthy intentions in mind all the while, room for life's unexpected celebrations.

Celebrating daily victories and realizing what's truly important is that I am changing from the inside out. 

A start point ( to the first chapter ).

It is time to write my story.
This is the finished rough intro to the first chapter, and there is no verbal punctuation.

These Crossroads Are Parallel 

Well that is just a lie.  
She says it long and slow.. 
Just as she may be drawing a sword out of a sheath, with her back to me.  
With the undertones that state I will not defy her again.  
No.  
This I know was a mistake in the first place. 
He is not my Father. 
I repeat my sentence.  
My accusation.  
My death sentence.  
This is my good bye. 
Did you hear me?  
She turns around with a fury that I have learned to fear.
At the rage that ends with aching.  
My mind hurts.  
I squeeze my hand a little more.  
Letting the tension ease the stress.  
With my 2 thumbs finding their place on the second knuckle of my pointer fingers.  
I can feel it though, the pounding in my ears.  
The waiting.  
While she stands there staring at a wall.  
Pretending not to hear me..  
Though her ears work well, her eyes often fail her.  
Today especially I make a point not to make eye contact. 
18 years old and graduated from High School. 
I had left home still 15 years old. 
1 month before my 16th birthday. 
There was a miscommunication.  
One where I tried hard to succeed.  
To work.  
To finish school.  
I tried hard not to follow in my moms footsteps. 
Sometimes I believed I would never see her again. 
This woman who was raised in a home where all roads met together.
They all crossed.  
She might have made a decent life for herself...  
If I had not arrived on the scene. 
1 month before her 17th birthday.

Unravelled Layers

Our young beginnings were often noted as less than healthy.
20 years have passed.
I'm writing full circle from where tentative steps were being traced on the horizon. The crumbling foundation that may have only existed temporarily, is a reminder that although there is always hope, sometimes revealing the layers that are unravelling is also a healthy step towards healing. 

A repost from January 2015. 

////

Today again my eyes trace the whiteout - foggy sky. The tentative steps multiply as I tread softly on sheer ice. Listening to the wind blowing sweet wishes of peace & well being. My arms flail regaining steadiness, as my lungs fill & I catch my breath.

I've touched on memories weaved together from past and present here. Gathered a cardigan across my chest as I dove down to the heart of this matter. But softly spoken is not always the whole truth.

Him & I. We've held hands through almost 2 decades and I have continued to be all unglued piecing together the puzzle of my past. Breaking our hearts in a thousand places, not even leaving this spot. All before watching the sun go down on our sorrows.

Because really there is a secrecy that has shattered our privacy and kept us turning in circles.

A quietness in my soul healed a forever illness of mistrust. This year was claimed: brave. This mess was set up in plain view. Triumph over the tumultuous mountain of last summer. We were survivors. Changes began to unravel and August rush arrived.

We let loose the reigns, trust began to timidly return. As patterns began to write a new history throughout this last September I agreed to dance alongside my husband. Can I just reveal how in awe (I am) of how he dances.

Our first class flowed with every turn and plié ending with a breathless curtsy. Still uncertain of this season the walking paths looked so welcoming to continue threading my thoughts to the unknown days ahead.

I switch my ballet slippers for running shoes. Grab a few more layers to protect myself from the chill of October skies. Over the last minute I decide to only walk a few miles instead of a dozen and then change my shoes.

It's a trip off the curb only 10 minutes in and a silly little twist of my foot when I feel a snap in my calf and know something has gone ridiculously wrong.

My heart still feels see through, fractured, bearing the fault lines.
He is part of memories that dance through my mind, daily.
A couple of young newlyweds, early parents lost in daydreaming about tomorrow, inside jokes, & endless adventures.

I am overwhelmed sometimes how could I express an encompassing love after the impact of my hidden terrors on our marriage?

When you've experienced trauma from as early as utero onwards there is an inexplicable amount of triggers that catch everyone by surprise. He has offhandedly said many a line and watched wideyed witnessing my reactions. Read my eyes that urged him to.. leave me alone, hide, just go!

There is no where to run, nothing that can sever yourself from something that is not your fault.

He's held my sobbing body as I begged forgiveness, and ran for cover when I am clouded with disbelief. He's heard me repeat phrases that should fall on deafness but have been reciprocated with well recited absentminded backlash.

Hoarfrost thick as my hand lingers on groves of branches, bushes and individual trees. The forests here are few and far between. Look closely and their intricate designs will begin to gather through your eyelashes into your hair.. I breathe softly, memories of us.

His gaze caught mine sheepishly hiding eye contact under brand new bangs.

He invited all of us roommates to a birthday party 19 years ago that day. From Calgary to Three Hills, young and spontaneous of course we accepted. All piling into a tiny car the very next day adventuring to the small town on the prairies.

Our first evening together. Friends keeping warm under a new coat.

Dear Daryl,

You have held me, written words, spoken truth to me over the years.
You've laughed heartily when I've hmmphed and vice versus.
Our children watch eagerly and paint our lives colorful.
They need us to embrace our gifts.

We await signs the healing is fusing our hearts together as one, well travelled throughout life so far.
I see a hero of our story.
It's us.
Our next move.
Unravelling layers.
I love you.

The dreams may lead.

We're playing hide and seek and I can't find my friends. I curl in a ball close to the sandbox and rock myself into a tizzy. Why was all the little kinders always smarter and faster than me?
I just want to be good.
Please let me good at this game.

I run fast.
They hoop and holler.
Makeshift slingshots of pinecones and pebbles whip through the air. But they miss me. By a long shot. Sailing through the forest around our little kindergarten. With long red pigtail braids spinning helicopters behind me. Not giving up until all of the kids are too winded to follow pursuit.

I grew up needing approval.
Soaking in every look from a teacher, note from a friends parent, spelling bee medal, winning track meet ribbons, and race congratulations. Along with every card in their envelopes and post it notes from friends and family. They were all cherished in pretty boxes brought along through countless moves. Eventually it was a turn of the page in my chemistry textbook while my marks struggled to stay above B. Flagpole prayer meetings and testimonies finished my grade 12 year with barely a passing grade to Graduate.

Is everything in life worth fighting for? I grew up believing that my life's worth depended on someone else's approval. If I wore the most modest clothes and was seen but not heard.

I became an adult cringing from the tender touches and innocent displays of love. Frightened of the dark and what lurked behind closed doors. Trapped in a corner waiting for the right words to express what my heart wanted to express. Expecting what the closest family needed was for me to be more capable - less vulnerable.

And we're all spiraling down this tunnel of memories. Wrapping our wounded hearts with see through gauze. Our vulnerability closer to our souls so far all our own.
We all have scars from the pain of being misunderstood.
We all have questioned our worth.
Surround yourself with those on the same journey. Daydreams may
lead to healing.

You & I are worth it.
We were made for magnificent things.

A call to my prodigal inner child.

I remember opening my arms and falling into waiting arms the night we arrived in that surreal safety net. The days ran together by then in what felt just like we stepped off earth and into another superhero galaxy.

My legs felt so long, heavy to lift and tired. Although I was tiny at 4 years old - I felt so tall. Towering over the world.

How do we measure the ache of longing? Time has hands that grasp us by the ankles. Diving into a deep blue sea of memories.
When we never get to the bottom no matter how deep we plumb. It's love that matters and treasures of truths unseen.

And it is in the morning as I write this - fast forward 30+ years.

I watch again a little part of me bound out of her room with too short jeans, too tight t-shirt, holey socks and chopped away hair. "Look Mom. Look at me! I grew. I'm 5!!" And instead of saying "Oh Azaelea you need to change..and let's do your hair" I just burst into a little dance with this little pixie to celebrate the wonders and joys of right now.

Last year (in May) we had an adventure. She looked me in the eyes - struggling to breathe. I knew it was urgent. It seemed hard to be careful not to speed, and then think positive in busy traffic. We arrived 2 hours later at the Children's Hospital. I had never been to Emergency there, and she could only breathe short gasps by then. "Hold me tighter please we need to run" I whispered. People were running with me through the parkade guiding us to the emergency doors. Then I tripped. Tripped through the doors, and landed with her secure in my arms on top of me.

I will tell you how this very moment was healing for me. An incredible turning point in my life's memory reel.

The nurses had her on a gurney with an X-ray machine, IV, and asthma meds through a mask in what felt like 90 seconds. Because you see: she was in a pediatric critical condition.
We stayed in quarantine for 4 days with a lot of progress.

It was in the middle of the night when nurses needed blood, her bed was wet, and meds were being transferred. She was so scared. When I just looked into her eyes and told her "I am so proud of you". Tears fell on her little body while she reached up to softly comfort 'me'. "I'll be ok. So will you, Mom."

She's intuitive already at this age. I see myself all over again in her. I scoop her up into my arms for an incredible embrace. The ones that she wraps her arms and legs around me so tight.. I squeeze right back. Put her on my lap and whisper "I love you" in her ear. Enjoying deep breaths of her morning hair. She'll stretch her arms out to the next person without letting me go. "Hug sandwich!"

Oh I know deep within me that these ordinary moments together are needed, and will be remembered far into the future.

In the dark of night whispers will remind me within my dreams. You know the ones? I remember being 'too small' and having nicknames that clung to my heart. But I'm older now and teaching our children the power of words. "So Mom when someone runs away how come you say (add emphatic hand gestures) Mom! Dad! Sweetheart! Son!" "Because they missed each other." I reply - as a matter of fact. There is no need to add the guilt or a question of "why on earth would you want to run away?"
She just seems to know already that everyone has a chance to be the prodigal child.

I'm starting to wonder what it would be like if I let go of those memories. That only have baggage attached. The tattered kind with the dog-eared books filling the cavity. Handles still hanging on by only one bolt. I'm starting to lean on the knowledge of *Honor your parents.* In my case it has been thoughts of - how do I do that? But the answer is in this prodigal lesson. In the innocence. --Go home.

Today I remember being 4 going on 5. I remember it all too well. But there seemed to be nothing to throws fits and bounds of joy towards.

I look back to that year of 4 years old. Starting to piece together where in history my foundation of parenting small children with big hearts actually exists. Watch my words. Open my arms and move forward. Is anything worth sacrificing joy?

So I keep learning this second time around. Because it is all a never ending story. A forward motion love. And I can look back with lighter baggage as I journey 'home.'

Summer exploring.

Tell me your story please.

Waiting on a breathless prayer.

It’s just a cardigan I pull closer over my arms and across my chest. A security dawning myself as I glance over at another trigger, another spill. I've spent time hiding in the closet of life and have made masks out of mothballs that have been left from rovings of wool.

Instead of opening the floodgates. Finding myself from the depths of an ocean of words. I pull out of the closet - for a night - dawning a midsummer nights dream. Maybe one more night- thoughtful. One more distraction to bear the weight of heat.

I have courage, but I’m trying to wear myself small. The murmur of the weak made strong in the breaking. Bravery unknots all my fears of failure. I laugh, breathe deep..

Anxiety turns fear inside out. To become stronger than ourselves. All I have stirring are intentional answers all wildly rolled together. Breathless. Everything running all down…

In the beginning, yes, breathless. In the end all I remember is taking the first step.

This is the reason I've never dived in. Invited that scared little girl over for a playtime. Her courage is our story. And when a trigger is pushed she calls in the troops. The one who is her only testimony. Standing up to fight instead of cowering in the corners.

Courage lives in our heart. Encompassing all that is watering our soul.

The wine glass in my hand stains red and I hear the word-Enabled.

Something rises up in me and the red wine splashes the wall and a witness is wide eyed. All while a terror streams down the walls as the glass shatters..


My Mother was never enabled. Although accusations caused myself and her to be beaten until unconscious so many times that we eventually found the courage with the help of my young uncle. To runaway. Through ravines and hiding under parked cars. I was 4.

My first memory was my mother fighting a man off of me, and myself being spanked until I saw .. Well nothing. She was admitted in the hospital numerous times and the hospital staff contacted my Grandmother. A nurse at the time. My grandparents made the long trek to see us way up in the Northern tundra. 16 hours. Only to be told they were not allowed on the property. Not allowed to visit. No pictures. Nothing.

The story is loud, loaded and frightening. The story has faces and bodies ravaged by domestic violence and pedophiles.

But I will now tap into the courage that had always been there. Growing roots planted long ago.

I see the gentleness behind your eyes. The lack of judgement. The grace to accept all things wholly old & new. Immediately the exhale slowly releases the memories bound up tight.

Now in whispers I remember the reason we came to this place tonight. The adventurous heart is longing to be with the people. Listening to their stories. Giving them voices.. Again. Some for the very first time.

But chances are I may regret this. Opening pandoras box. This life is worth it.

Who will join me? Sit together perhaps with a screen between us or a coffee wafting warm and inviting. Daring the silence. Exploring the risk that terror will be reminded to be watered with tears.

And prayers match the grieving, the waiting and pursuing. All where my heart lies right now. On the outside looking in I want to wear who I am.

My friend thank you for seeing me.

..in these treasures.

Time after time I understand how many layers our hearts hold.

Our hearts hold layers just as a tree holds leaves. Each one falling slowly. Sometimes not at all welcomed, pushed along with the force of a gusty wind. Renewing our lives as we grow stronger and walk confidently. The roots grow deeper. Seemingly compared to the words we hear along the way. Carving and shaping not only ourselves but each one that we get to share our homes with.


This little pixie in the middle. We celebrate broken fevers, a sleep full night. A dry bed and an inch taller in her height. This almost 5 year old. I close my eyes sometimes and make wishes. One in which we will cherish these seemingly insurmountable accomplishments ~always.


When we travel through months & years of healing. Deep conversations sometimes hold the weight of the world. This moment:

Dear Son, I want to write you a letter. One that has taken a long time to write. I know that sometimes other people, even your friends, don't always have your best interests in mind. In your vulnerability more of your precious innocence has been lost. Your art was found in the wrong place. You are home with us, from school, to really let that sink in. To learn from this occasion. Thank you for your honesty. And for apologizing to all those that were affected. For this I am completely proud of you. We want to direct your art in a more positive direction. One day you'll know that we as your parents were there. And we understand. There are so many things tumbling around in my heart that I want to tell you. But for now let me sum it up: I love you. I appreciate you. I value your life. I believe you will lead an incredible life. An artist you are. You were created perfect by your Artist. Wholly, unconditionally loved. Please know always that you are not alone.

Love, Mom

'For Real' Baby Sling Pattern

This is from a very special request, and a go ahead from one of my dear baby wearing friends. A 'For Real' baby sling pattern has arrived for wee infants. ~Recommended for up to 15lbs.~ Carrying your baby in a sling will help you be hands free for many little tasks throughout the day as a busy mama. Baby slings are often made from woven fabric, such as hemp or fleece. This one is made from 100% wool yarn. The wool I use, especially for patterns, are found locally at the Custom Woolen Mills .

Enjoy a cozy cuddle while baby and you stay toasty during the often chilly months this time of year brings.

Beginners & Knitters everywhere can pick up this pattern with ease. Enjoy!

You will need:
-US size 10.5 (6.5 or 7mm) needles.
-2 skeins of Lopi or bulky weight wool.
-When selecting yarn for your baby sling, find a 100 percent wool yarn that felts well.
-An extra needle for bind off.

Pattern:
Cast on with long tail method -30st
Knit first row
Continue Stst (knit 1 row, purl 1 row) until it measures 8"

Increase:
RS Kfb1 *K1 M1* cont. to last st Kfb1 (60st)
Purl first row
Cont. Stst for 30"

Decrease:
RS When garment is 37"
K2tog all across (30st)
Purl first row
Cont. Stst until the garment is 47" long.
*Cast off with 3 needle bind off

*Note: another option is to bind-off, then graft ends together, using a mattress stitch method.

Weave in loose yarn.

To give your finished sling more security, and you peace of mind, felt your finished knit sling. This will shrink the size down to give it more structure.

Have you ever felted? I assure you it's yet another hobby that gives satisfaction with the finished project. Plus there are many ways to embellish it to give an original appeal.

Felt the sling:
Place it in an old pillowcase and add it and a few pair of jeans (preferably) to a top-loading washing machine. Wash the sling in hot water with mild detergent. After the laundry cycle is finished, remove the sling from it's pillowcase. Then give it a really good tug into shape, and let it dry on a clean dark bath towel.

Happy knitting (& felting)!

October 1. *Gratitudes

*heartfelt gifts
*golden hue
*learning to dance
*turning over new leaves



*accepting change
*enveloping in warmth

Summer. Return to me..