How Knitting Informs Living
My ball of soft grey baby alpaca yarn, and the 32-inch round needle where the unraveling strand resides, make up the infant stage of a sweater I am knitting for my sister, Peggy. The yarn and needles all but yank me down as I move past the blue sofa on the way from my studio to the kitchen for a snack or to my bedroom to grab my book. My knitting looks like a little grey kitty curled right where I left it last night when I finally set down the sweater-in-progress and headed to bed. I’d watched two episodes of Mad Men and was literally falling asleep mid-stitch. It’s then that I hear what sounds more like a cat’s purr than a voice,
“Don’t pick up your book. Just sit with me for a few rows.”
I imagine how I’d feel if I let myself settle into the cushions, crossing my legs and picking up my work. Knitting has its own language; the word used for a project in progress is “work.” This word is not fitting though, for how I feel about knitting. Work, for me, implies stress, myriads of decisions, and always the potential to fail irreparably. Whereas knitting brings me to a state of pure relaxation, completely clearing my head. My mind is emptied of thoughts other than hypnotic counting and gentle yarn pulls, twisting in and under at times, over and above at different times. While there are a wide variety of ins and outs with my needles, nothing in knitting is irreparable. Areas of regret can be undone and redone, leaving no trace of flaws and never a scar. This particular pattern, now cooing to me like a peaceful dove, creates an Eyelet pattern, delicate pairs of peepholes every ten stitches or so via such gymnastic maneuvers as Yarn-Overs, Knit-Two-Togethers, and Slip-Slip-Knits.
Deciphering a knit pattern’s written instructions is a mysterious puzzle. And I am a fan of puzzles: crosswords, sudokus, jigsaws. The mystery with a knit pattern lies in its coded language, only understood after years of dedication to the art. One new to deciphering a knitting pattern must be willing to perform prescribed actions without a clue of what the result will look like. It’s an act of faith, of trust in the pattern.
As Peggy’s sweater takes shape, I am awed by the process, glad to have found my way to this world of yarns, needles, and mysterious patterns. The ins and outs, ups and downs, overs, unders, and throughs of my yarn have bled into the fabric of my day-to-day life. Especially the mysterious pattern unfolding and the idea that there need be no regrets.