Some combination of the fairy tale I’d been reading and the book I was currently listening to, both set in bygone eras and told in soothing tones of quiet industry, made me think of my spinning wheel last night.

I have a wonderful spinning wheel, carefully chosen to be both beautiful and supremely functional. Many spinning wheels sacrifice either beauty or function, but mine manages to look like it was plucked straight out of a fairy tale’s illustrations while also managing to keep a steady rhythm with very little effort. Very little effort, that is, until I adopted a cat 6 years ago. Ever since then the idea of fending off a crazed feline or listening to him yeowl from behind a closed door has been enough to make me flip on the TV or pick up a book rather than touch the wheel.

But yesterday evening, as the sunlight angled steeply from the west and the cicadas sang to me from the trees, I carried the wheel and a nearly-forgotten bag of roving outside, sat down under my tree, and began to spin. What I had thought was a bag of generic white sheep’s wool (utilitarian spinning at best) turned out to be buttery merino. What I had thought would feel horribly conspicuous (who spins outside even in a tiny little city?) felt cosily tucked under the tree, beside a hedge, and behind an aging picket fence. Even the ants stayed away.

And so I listened to several chapters of my book on iPod and filled half a bobbin with milky white strands of merino wool.

I think I’ll do that again this evening if the weather cooperates. Besides, summer won’t last forever, and I need new mittens.