The trouble was that the slothfulness clung to me as morning moved into day. Without my early walk my paws began to drag. My sleep-dulled eyes peered at the papers on my desk without comprehension.
Mole and the Baby Bird
By noon all I could think about was how lovely it would be to be nestled back under my doona. Had I been more alert, I might have been surprised, or even alarmed, at how quickly I assimilated slothful attributes, how soon and thoroughly my molishness retreated.
Days turned into weeks. Now, I have nothing against sloths.http://checkout.midtrans.com/mota-del-cuervo-mujeres-solteras-manos.php
Jessica Kingsley & Singing Dragon
They are beautiful creatures with gentle natures. They might on first acquaintance even appear to be a deal more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed than moles. But something began to niggle. Sloths are not very grounded.
In fact, I could hardly have chosen a less earthbound body to morph myself into. Nor are they very curious. But could I remember how to gather my moleparts back? Could I even remember what my moleparts were? It was then I remembered the rather shabby shamanic text that Uncle Ratty had picked up on one of his voyages. I managed to summon just sufficient molish energy to rummage for it in the box room.
And although I reverted to armchair slothfulness I rallied enough molish perseverance to delve into the secrets of Totem Mole, Guide to the Underworld. Piece by piece, I gathered myself together: my paws that tunnel down into unknown territory; my snout that sniffs for rich meanings hidden in those depths; my pelt that feels every nuance, and tries, though does not always succeed, to trust those feelings; and my moley curiosity that ponders and ponders until revelations come and can be brought to the surface to share with fellow creatures.
The Mole Family's Christmas
These last three days I have woken to a slither of moon in an indigo sky. My snout has twitched, my paws have touched the earth before my mind has even engaged.
By dawn I have reached the summit. The days are shorter, the air cooler, and although my pelt is a lovely, cosy, velvety thing there are some crisp mornings I hanker after an extra layer. It is jumper time. I love woollies; not just for their snugness. Each jumper tells its own tale. It is an enriching membrane that both grounds and delights. I first learnt how to knit from Uncle Ratty.
I had been fiddling with a loose thread in the hearth rug, and Great Uncle Mole made some comment about devils and idle paws as he grunted himself into his armchair for his after-lunch nap. Uncle Ratty winked at me, and told me to fetch his duffle bag. It was a grubby old thing, a sort of oily indigo, and had H. PH X stencilled on it in peeling white paint, but to my young mind it was a cornucopia.
He told me to sit on the Egyptian hassock while he rummaged. I fidgeted. He pulled out a ball of string, or rather strings. Uncle Ratty drew out a pair of white sticks. She knitted the Continental way, wool wound around her foreclaw, faster, tighter.
She was a demon knitter. Casting on at tea-time, an entire stocking would be cast off before supper. Mathilde was a stickler, too. I had to undo rows and rows if I absentmindedly purled a stitch instead of plaining it. When I protested to Tante Mole, she told me that Mathilde had won prizes for knitting while still at school in her home town of Mulhouse. And she had been given medal for bravery in the Great War.
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Later, I became a knitter, too, — always had something between my paws. I still salivate over colours and their names: heather, moss, dusky woodswallow, periwinkle, spinifex and tawny owl. I still stroke wool samples with longing. I knitted until a decade or so ago when my poor sore paws could knit no more. Are you looking for the perfect gift for the conservationist in your life? Adopt a Species is the solution — even if the conservationist is you.
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