I’ve had to wear wool for the second day in a row.
I don’t like wool.
Sure, it’s suitably warm on blustery November days when the snow is swirling and the wind is stinging.
Wool is adequate attire at work where there are big windows and cavernous rooms.
And yesterday, when I accidentally spilled coffee on my sweater it beaded nicely so that I could sop it up before it left a damp stain (an event that reminded me why sheep don’t wander around in a soggy state when it rains).
Practicality aside, I still don’t like wool. It’s bulky and itchy but most of all it reminds me it’s cold outside and that winter has settled in like an unwanted guest.
The wool sweaters I own are thick and coarse and as toasty as can be. They exude practicality and purpose and are anything but pretty. When I wear them I feel as though I should strap on a pair of work boots and tramp out into the forest to tap maple syrup.
So, I bought these flowers, and snapped this picture for no other reason than flowers are delicate and delightful and they remind me of spring…
it’s been a week of wool.