In the path of light

[vaneramos]

This afternoon djjo and I attended Waterloo County Knitters' Fair, "the largest event of its kind in Canada". Fibre people from all over Southwestern Ontario converge on the orgy. You can hardly move without bumping into somebody you know, besides elbowing past countless eccentric, eager strangers to reach some eye-catching yarn on the far side of a mob.

Last time I went with Danny two years ago was a much different experience. I wasn't part of the scene. I just bobbed my head amiably at his acquaintances and felt my energy dissipate quickly.

Now I am a committed knitter, doing it too, and saw friends there whom he has never met. Besides, my daughter marian_w was a vendor, so I snatched a quick catch-up with her.

Now I am infected with the restless quest for treasure, that perfect yarn to make life richer and lovelier. Actually, I left my credit card at home, carried and spent only $20, procuring just two soft skeins of 100% Peruvian highland merino wool.

Back in Guelph I realized I hadn't gone for a walk yet today, and it was pouring rain. We had an early dinner of local sweet corn and Zehr's roast chicken, hoping the weather might lighten up, but it didn't. I had to go (a daily promise to myself, unbroken since April), and Danny went with me.

In Pilgrim At Tinker Creek, Annie Dillard wrote about putting herself in the path of light. She was talking about God. You can't go looking for God, you just assume a receptive attitude, you walk the walk, and sometimes by chance you happen to be present when the divine shaft of light blazes in a bush. Unless you have your eyes open, you'll never see it.

I have adopted the metaphor for creativity instead of religion. I can't command the universe to provide inspiration or beauty. It doesn't work that way. I could do the easier thing and stay home, but if I fail to wait and watch, the angel will not have a chance to visit.

(It is a fine thing, too, a very fine thing indeed, to have a boyfriend who enjoys going there with me sometimes, standing quietly for long minutes while I work the camera. Someone to share it.)

So I promise myself. Otherwise I'll never stand under a black umbrella on the bank of the Eramosa River, watching pouring rain transform its surface to something inexpressible.