Sleepless nights are great for type work.
Some people wince at the name Birkenstock, linking the shoe company to suburban soccer moms and müesli-chomping protestors who jettison personal style in favor of comfort wear. But my view of the iconic leather sandals is different: I see my dad slouching around in his dark brown Birkenstocks, lazily tossing pancakes skyward; my Oma, tan Birkenstocks damp with ocean spray, perched on an Adirondack chair at the beach; my mom, smile blazing, purple Birkenstocks sweeping around our Belgium home with my brother on her hip.
When I bought my Birkenstocks at Gym Standard yesterday, I felt I was holding an unspoken tradition aloft. As I stood before the mirror in a navy suede pair with bold silver buckles, I grinned. They clashed with my style. They looked terrible with my over-priced jeans. But their soft embrace clung to my memory and did not let go.
Putting things in order before the long weekend.
Knitting soothes my active mind and puts structure to my creative musings.
I'm designing this sweater to be knit in a herringbone pattern with cotton sleeves,
sewn on after the last stitches are bound off.
Sketching this morning, in search of my next knitting pattern . . .
An early-morning, espresso-fueled sketch.
I'd love to see this come to life with huge black fabric seams,
so that it looks as flat and graphic worn as it does on my sketchbook page.