As a reward for making it through last weekend, making it through last week, and taking proper care of myself this weekend, I started the afghan for myself made from my own handspun yarn.

It’s hard for me to find the words for how much I love this. The two yellows make me smile. The blue/green yarn is just exactly my favorite thing where each square looks different but fits together because it’s the same fucking yarn. Just, whew, holy shit. I want to look at this for a million years.

My plan, such as it is, is to do a continuous join around each row with a third yarn. Each row is going to be eight squares across. I’ll have to see how wide eight squares ends up being with that last row on there, but I imagine it’ll be ten deep.

It just blows my mind. That yarn exists because I made it. The brighter yellow exists because I dyed it. And yet, even with as much control as I have over the process, I didn’t know how the fuck it would turn out until I started crocheting.

In related news, I finally gave Julie her afghan and, as much as I’ve enjoyed looking at it draped over my chair, I felt such pleasure at watching her looking at all the different colors and admiring the variegation and, again, just the supreme pleasure in knowing that those things exist because I did it. And she totally got my “take one color from the previous square and move it into the next square” thing!

But the thing I love about it is that it’s like you have all these variables that you control and it seems, logistically, like that should somehow make the whole process less surprising. But instead it feels more like magic.

Because, like, I know my talent level and I know what I know and yet, and yet, there’s this.