I dreamed last night.
Well, I almost always dream, but I usually don't remember anything other than that I dreamed (and over the days of Yule, the liminal time, all my dreams were unremembered but I knew that I'd dreamed something wonderful, a tiny jewel in my mind. Now they're back to their usual mixed bag) . . .
Anyway, I'd been working on a piece of stranded knitting before I went to bed, and I was very tired. I could feel myself entering the dreaming state, a bit at a time, like walking into the ocean; deeper with every step. And I dreamed of myself knitting, stitch by stitch. (I used to do that when I worked as a typesetter, eighteen or twenty hour days sometimes; I'd dream of myself setting type and feel my fingers moving, letter by letter, all night long.)
I was knitting a piece with a forest and animals in it, jaguars and wolves and wild horses and some smaller unidentifiable things, and as I knit them they came to life . . . I worked their heads first (which is not the way of it; you usually work from the bottom up), and their eyes came to life; they watched me work my way down their bodies. When I finished their mouths, they purred or growled or just breathed; their ears pointed and their tails twitched; and when I'd knitted them completely, they walked out into the room, leaving only their shadows among the knitted flowers and vines.