I have been promising and promising and promising myself that I would sit down and begin daily entries on my blog. But like a lot of promises one makes to one's self, nothing has come of it so far. I read somewhere (Arianna Huffington, I think) that the beauty of blogging is in the laxity of it all, the stream of consciousness thing, the idea that you just sit down and talk deep thoughts out loud, without editing. But I don't like this notion of not editing. Editing is important to me. I want my ideas laid out plainly first. The whoopdedoos can come later. Writing comes very naturally to me, but there is always some tweaking to be done, at least on my end.

Blogging is self-indulgence in the extreme. It is your most private journaling made public. My instinct is to try to make each entry important. I treat each entry as a composition assignment, and I am fighting for mine to be the one read out loud by Teacher. Why is that? Why can't I just cut loose and utter my little, mundane thoughts and then move on? Well, partly because I find those types of blogs rather insipid myself. There's that. I truly don't mind hearing about what somebody had for breakfast, so long as it is told in an interesting, meaningful way, you see.

So occasionally I have started an entry, on a particular subject, and I have set them aside to edit, and then they have languished, unpublished, unread, unremarked upon, for months. But in going back over some of the half-born entries, I was happy with the work. Here, for example, is an entry I began over a year ago:

"My eldest daughter, Greta, turns twelve today. I used to spend hours marveling at the sheer perfection of her; over her creamy skin and rosebud mouth; over her laughing hazel eyes and one plump little curl sitting directly on the top of her head; over her dimpled knuckles and gurgling laugh. Everything about her was beautiful and I drank her in like a milk shake."

I ended it abruptly, as you see, but really -- does much more need to be said? This was a great start and perhaps one day, I will be able to sort out the emotions of motherhood and then organize my thoughts long enough to finish. But editing takes time. So until then, I will have to settle for whatever comes...

The coyotes woke me again last night. I can't blames the coyotes alone for my wakefulness, of course. My husband is out of work, my middle daughter has a back injury, my car's brakes failed on me recently, we are running through our savings like water through a sieve. I'm not sleeping well. Insomnia is simply a way of life for me right now.

I am not afraid of the coyotes. On bright, chilly nights, the hunting must be very good because you can hear the yips and calls all around. My neighbors all have stories of missing cats, of daytime sightings, of midnight back door raids, and these stories are true. Yet I know the woods that crouch thickly along either side of the creek that runs for miles and miles, provide all the shelter, cover and food they require. They do not need me to survive.

I had been sleeping the sleep of the dead, that deep, deep sleep that clutches you hard and wishes to drag you back down. But my dog was sounding the alarm, so I shook my head and tried to clear the cobwebs from my confused mind as I stepped into the night. The moon, pregnant and full, shone with a frightening intensity, spilling its cold light on the wide outdoors. I gazed up at it, entranced. I imagined a kind of menace in its intent, hovering aggressively above me in the early morning sky. There was something undeniably otherworldly in its brilliance. I shivered as I peered into the illuminated woods. The coyotes, three of them, merely froze and stared at me from across the field that separated us, their yellow eyes narrowed to cautious slits. For what seemed an eternity, we pondered one another in perfect stillness, and I was the first to turn away.

The nighttime air was crisp and chilly. Stars twinkled overhead and the trees rustled and sighed. My dog panted and leaned hard against my leg, drawing courage and calm from my presence. Hundreds of tiny white pear blossoms floated on the surface of his water bowl. Details of my little corner of the world rose up with a startling clarity. Momentarily, I forgot why I was standing out there, cold and in my nightgown. My mind seemed to empty itself and then fill up again with the essence of the night around me. When my eyes darted back to the woods, the coyotes had moved on.

I crawled back to bed and fell into a troubled sleep. I dreamed of spiders. There were two spiders and they were in love. They had taken over our guest bathroom, spinning webs truly awesome to behold. The webs spread from wall to wall, suspended like delicate hammocks. At the bottom of the larger web hung a honeycomb, dripping and glistening, rich and golden. I found myself reaching a tentative finger out to taste the honey, like a child might, fascinated and fearful, yet unable, somehow, to resist all that sweetness.

I awoke and lay there for a moment recounting my dream. It was still quite dark outside. Feeling oddly foolish, I got up to have a look in my guest bathroom. For some time now, I had allowed a little house spider to set up camp in the corner opposite the sink. For weeks, that little spider had been something of a friend, a companion. I had watched her stalking prey, spinning her haphazard webs, preparing her egg sac. I had felt sadness for what I imagined was her effort to distribute her special set of genes before her own candle flickered and burned itself out. (I will admit that most of my information about spiders comes from "Charlotte's Web.") I related to her as a gentle mother, sacrificing herself for the futures of her numerous offspring, bowing to the inevitable, the unavoidable turning wheel of life.

A strange drama was unfolding. My little spider was perched high above the center of her web, inching her way up one of the long anchor threads that attached to the wainscoting. A huge spider sat quietly at the end of this thread, waiting patiently for her. The larger spider was grotesquely bigger, at least 5 times her size. Yet she came to him on what appeared to be her own will, under her own power. I don't know what happens with spiders, the finer points of spider society are closed to me, I can't even identify either of them with any confidence. I returned again and again over the span of an hour, checking the progress of their slow dance. Was I witnessing a death spiral? A courtship? A power struggle? What? I resisted the urge to interfere.

I found them gone in the morning. I had been half expecting them to be sitting on two enormous webs...

The girls and I were rushing to Greta's piano lesson when I saw a squirrel in the middle of the street. Completely unconcerned over my approaching vehicle, he was touching his head again and again to the asphalt as if he were tasting something. As I neared, I could see blood pouring out of his mouth. I grabbed a t-shirt out of the car and carefully inched toward him. He stood there rocking and shaking his head. My heart ached for him. I knew he was a goner, but I couldn't just let him die in the street. So gently, I wrapped him up and carried him to the house, where I placed him in a cat carrier. "We'll take him with us," I said as I got back into the car.

Sensitive to how frightened he must be, we were quiet as we drove to Greta's lesson. About halfway there, he flipped out of the t-shirt suddenly and I was surprised at his strength. The bleeding had stopped and his eyes were bright. My eldest daughter was holding the carrier in her lap and I warned her to keep her fingers away from any of the holes. "He has a lot of fight left in him, poor baby." He fell over and lay still, breathing hard, and I sighed. "Poor baby," I said again.

Over the next 45 minutes, as Greta had her lesson, we sat vigil with the dying squirrel. There is a certain ceremony that should be observed at the passing of a life, any life, and the girls and I were silent witnesses to this little being struggling against the tide. I respected his wildness and tried not to peer too much into the cage. He lay there, eyes open, rib cage working, head pillowed on the folds of cloth.

That very morning, we had had the difficult news that John's father, Steve, was fighting for his life in a hospital several hours away from us. John has had a complicated relationship with his father, who has always seemed to make the wrong decisions in life. Three times divorced, a lifetime of alcohol abuse, morbidly obese since his early 20's, unable to raise his own children at various points in their lives, supremely self-involved yet always rather proud of his handsome, accomplished son. In his way, Steve has taught John to be a good father by providing the case study for what not to do in life. John loves his father, even while recognizing each and every fault. Sometimes forgiveness is the only way to ever move forward.

It had already been a long day and I was jumpy every time the phone rang. So I slowed my thoughts down and waited, with my hand caressing the carrier every once in a while. But the squirrel didn't die right then as I believed he would. I brought him home and left him in a dark room when he could rest undisturbed and I began making calls. It took a couple of hours to actually make contact with a wildlife rehabber and I was amazed that the squirrel was not only alive but beginning to stumble around a little, disoriented but relatively calm and responsive.

I drove him up to the Heights to a facility where they immediately administered pain killer and a steroid to take down the swelling. The director of the wildlife center felt he had probably been hit by a car and once the swelling was down, they would x-ray and evaluate. I stood there in the lobby, amazed and humbled at this roomful of volunteers that were dedicated to doing all they could possibly do to help this little squirrel. I realized, beyond a doubt, that I had found a good place for me. "What can I do to help?" I asked and the next minute I was signing up for an orientation and looking at schedules and carpool lists.

The squirrel survived his critical first 48 hours and so did Steve. I cannot pretend to know the future for either of these souls, but I do know that I am pulling hard for both of them. Life is precious, a gift. It doesn't matter how canned that sounds. In the space of 18 months, I lost my mother, my grandmother and two of my dearest friends -- terrible losses that have irrevocably shifted the direction of my life. I will say it again -- life is a gift. Live it.

I have been casting on and ripping back and casting on and ripping back on John's little hat so many times, it's ridiculous. But like many handcrafters, making something for the hubby is generally one of the hardest tasks I can tackle. I want it to be perfect, for one thing. I know this man really well, right? And I can picture exactly where he is going to wear this hat and under what sorts of conditions. Plus, I am wanting to use a super chunky baby alpaca wool and I don't have a pattern. So I knit little swatches and muddle through the best I can. I'm getting there though. It doesn't help that the man makes SUGGESTIONS along the way either. Like "Can it go down lower over my ears?" or "Can you knit anchors into it?" Tee hee. I patiently explain to him that I know what I am doing and that this yarn is really too thick for complicated stranded work. The anchors hat, which we have discussed, will be made of a much skinnier wool. THIS hat is for when it's cold and wet and you need something slouchy to put on in a hurry. Okay, so maybe I am not all that patient with him and use my long-suffering wife voice when I am saying all this...

But yesterday I started (and finished) some lovely yoga socks for my middle daughter, who is a competitive gymnast and wants a little comfort on her feet for when the gym is cold. I debated whether or not to post the photo of her in a handstand against the wall, with her bloody bandaid visible in the shot, but I figure heckfire -- gymnastics is a tough sport! Let 'em see the bandaid! You oughta' see the rips on her hands.

I found this note on them last night: "I LOVE the socks, Mom!" Way to receive a handknitted gift! She is so getting lots of goodies in her Christmas stocking!

I experience some truly deep thoughts while knitting. Random items swirl around in my head and if I could just capture a few of the damn things every once in a while... But I set the needles down and rush over to the keyboard, only to find my mind featureless and slightly marshmallowy. Genius lost. Anyway, I was having this idea for a blog unfold in my brain as I cast on the stitches for a little skullcap I am knitting for my husband, John. We just bought a 25' sailboat and he very much wants to take us (that's me and our three daughters) on a sail trip from Kemah to Galveston over the Christmas break. It's December and the weather has been all over the place. One day shining like mad and the next drizzling mist with a freezing crosswind. The unpredictability is what fires John up. Sailing is an ADVENTURE, he reminds me. It'll be FUN. And it probably will be but what's wrong with a little adventure that doesn't involve numb fingers and chattering teeth?

Crafting and culinary escapades aboard a sailboat. That's my life in a nutshell right now. Why not blog about it?