One day in May, I was in Hobby Lobby with my family. After picking up items for the kids, I head to the yarn department. There are so many colors and sizes of yarn. There are yarns of every kind, row after row, like a rainbow of options. I walk through the aisles, eyeing the yarns like jewels, picking up random skeins, and feeling their softness. I see one named Sugar Wheel Cotton. The skein has five colors blended into it: deep pink, light pink, pinkish white, dark grey, and light grey. It is so soft!
My husband looks at me skeptically and barks, “Don’t you have enough yarn?!”
“Well, I need these!" I tell him as I put two skeins in my basket. I happily check out with the two skeins in my little bag.
When I arrive home, my thoughts race with excitement and wonder. What should I do with it? I start searching the internet for patterns. I filter down the patterns by yarn weight, type of yarn, and yardage. The yarn is 100% cotton. This means the yarn has no elasticity. Since it has no elasticity, the yarn will not have a "memory" or hold a shape. Socks and hats are a terrible idea. Dishcloths? Hmmm...this yarn is too pretty to be a dishcloth. A shawl? The yarn is light and airy. Two skeins with 335 yards each will make a lovely, big, comfortable shawl. Yes, the yarn will be a shawl.
I continue to look through the patterns, comparing each to the yarn and judging if the colors work with the pattern. I compare the yarn and pattern to my supply of knitting needles. This process is like a puzzle; I must figure out which pieces fit together and highlight the yarn perfectly. Finally, the pieces come together, and I can start.
I sit with a cup of coffee, put on a good movie, and start knitting. I start with three stitches. The pattern adds a stitch to each row. The yarn and I will spend a lot of time together. I work on it day after day. When I am stressed, I allow the yarn to comfort me. I allow the rhythm of the pattern to relax me, the softness to soothe me, and the colors to lift me. The design is easy enough to allow my thoughts to flow. Like the philosopher Seneca, writing in the middle of a crowd, I become so focused on my knitting that no one can distract me. I allow my mind to become self-absorbed, and I do not let the outside world distract me. I find my inner distance in a room full of people when I am with my yarn. The noise and the people no longer bother me.
The colors blend seamlessly, from one color to another. The soft yarn is wrapped around my fingers, softly and quietly gliding onto the needles from the skein through my fingers. After a few days of knitting, the yarn reveals the pattern: a row of sideways “V’s” with little circles on top, separating the rows. The pattern is like a silent morse code --K2, SSK, YO, repeat-- with a message that only I understand. The rhythm of the needles is like a lullaby, singing softly to me as I work. The yarn is forgiving of mistakes if I need to unravel it; it does not hold the tension, and the twist stays in place. Then the yarn and I start again.
When I get home from work and the dinner is made, I head downstairs, where the yarn waits for me. I pick it up and admire it. I look at how much it has grown. “Look!” I tell my family, demanding that they also admire the yarn. My daughter smiles as she caresses the yarn against her face. I share pictures of it with my friends, like a parent shares pictures of their newborn. Then I knit. I keep knitting while watching tv. The kids wait politely to tell me something; they only interrupt when I finish a row. As the evening wears on, my wrist starts to ache. The tendonitis in my shoulder flares up. My body tells me to stop knitting, but the yarn whispers, “One more row.”
I take the yarn with me wherever I go. At first, it fits in my purse, but as the shawl grows larger, I find a special bag for it. I take it with me from room to room and inside my car. I never know when I will have the chance to pull it out. The yarn is a good traveling companion. The pattern is easy to find and pick up again. The yarn brings admirers in public. Strangers ask what it will be and coo over the colors, wanting to touch it. They tell me their own stories of yarn.
The yarn is admired, and it is also respected. Without my permission, no one picks up the yarn, fearing the stitches will slide off the needles. No matter where I lay it, it is not moved. The cat will watch the yarn moving out of the bag, his little head bobbing up and down with the yarn. He gently bats at it as I pull it out. When he tries to bite the yarn, the kids swiftly pick him up and carry him away. Everyone respects the yarn.
Sometimes, there are times when I cannot spend time with it. The yarn waits so patiently. When I pull it out again, it is like meeting with an old friend. The yarn is still soft and welcoming. I wrap the yarn around my fingers, like a hug from a friend, and the knitting continues.
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