The first time a yoga teacher put me on my head (OK, the second), I knew I would do yoga for the rest of my life. Like riding a bike, head stand made me feel like a kid. It had this way of piercing the veil between childhood and adulthood, splicing decades with kinesthetic memory. 

I’ve stood on my head for my nephews then showed them how to turn their rubbery toddler bodies upside down. I’ve stood on my head in my office, Mitch walking past me un-phased, the cats playing with my hair. I've even done head stand at O'Hare waiting for a flight.

There are a lot of other yoga poses about which I'm not so sanguine. But hang me upside down and I'm happy as a big brown bat.

Knitting’s like that. It has a way of sneaking up on you, going from a little hobby into a lifelong passion somewhere around cables, lace and colorwork. Before you know it you’ve got six or seven 44-quart plastic storage bins filled with yarn.

I’ve taught a lot of beginners. I encourage them to keep their investment low until they know they’re knitters. (No Addis at first, too slick, too expensive.) Some won’t be knitters. It’s almost incomprehensible, but knitting’s not for everyone. Some know immediately. Others doggedly persist until something clicks.

After you know, all bets are off, don’t you think? Somewhere along the line, $40 for a skein of yarn doesn’t seem like a perimenopausal lapse in judgment.

The wonder of things like yoga, knitting, reading, cooking, and yes, that scourge, writing is that they are inexhaustible. You can never know everything, can never find the edge where there isn’t something more to learn. I could see computers being that way, or ballet, or pole vaulting.

Passions sustain. Give us a reason to pour our cereal in the morning. Help us acquire compassion for our spouses and their passions.

It comforts me to know that in a transient world, some things--God willing--are here to stay.

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