Wednesday, November 11, 2009
... or to Frog or not to Frog?
All was going well as I zipped along on my Soy Mocha Cabled Cardi. I did the bind off for the armholes and put the front portions on holders to work the back. The pattern says, "Bind off 3 sts at beg of next 2 rows. Dec 1 st each side on next row, then every other row 5 times more..." So, I did. Now I am 2" up the back, enjoying the reverse stockinette stitch, because, after all, it is comfortably automatic.
Then it hit me, I was actually making my decreases on the edge. You know the mental gymnastics we all go through, "Does it matter? Will anyone really notice? I mean, it is rev st st; it's not like it was frontwise st st, and the decreases would show that much. And I was just following the pattern..."
Like mindless stockinette stitch, we can go through days, weeks, months, virtually on automatic. The things we do or say to the people in our lives just fly by and everybody moves on, right? Those we profess to love should just know to take us for who we are and not "sweat the small stuff". If someone is hurt in the process, well, those are the lumps of life that we all have to swallow. But what if we have the opportunity for a "do over"? To go back and do the things that make our loved ones feel more valued, or say something in a less destructive way -- would we?
We create the relationships we have. And even those blood connections that we had no choice in creating, are ours to nurture or ravage, to knit into something serviceable or hide away in a dark closet like dimestore acrylic. When it's up to me, what words will I allow to fall on the ears of those around me? Caustic or kind, it's my choice. And if I learn that something I have done has caused pain to someone, what will I do? Will I leave it "as is", thinking maybe it wouldn't really be noticed? Or will I go back and do everything in my power to make it right?
My choice? I'm going to ribbit, ribbit, ribbit...
Friday, October 23, 2009
A friend recently brought over a beautiful intarsia wool sweater her parents had given her as a graduation present some years ago. As you can imagine, the little wooly bugs had had a snack on it and she asked if I could fix it. As I searched through my stash for just the right colors and types of yarns, I thought of the sad conversation we had of her family struggles.
As I carefully threaded my needle with the purplish-navy, knowing I could never match the original mohair exactly, I began the mending process. This was the largest hole, and as I was closing it up, I dearly wished that the widening gap between her husband and her could be drawn back together as well.
Moving to the two cream-colored holes, one in the neck ribbing and one in the sleeve (for which I had an almost exact match of wool), my thoughts turned to her two children. They are both teens with individual needs of their own. My friend is an excellent mother and has worked diligently to provide the most loving environment any child could ask for. I want more than anything to mend these two places so that the damage is undetectable.
As knitters, when we create something new for our family, friends and those in need, so much love and kind thoughts are connected with every stitch. But mending holes in a much-loved garment that bridges a person's more contented past with their tumultuous present, can play it's own small part in healing some of the wounds life can inflict.
(Excellent resources for information on clothes/wool moths: http://www.infestation.ca/insects/clothes-moths-moths.html, http://www.whatsthatbug.com/, and http://extension.oregonstate.edu/catalog/pdf/pnw/pnw606-e.pdf)
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Another sleepless night melts away, like a surreal painting, to the sound of overfull gutters disgorging copious waterfalls. Strange how rain can sound very similarly to the crackling of a fire, when it's drippling hits the ground just right. Both can be very soothing, especially when you know you're safe. As thick as the fogs of depression may lie at times, I am comforted in the recurring realization that "I am not homeless." An adequate, if at it's 30-year limits, roof casts its protection overhead, and an aging furnace continues to ignite natural gas, warming those who sleep underneath. And, as someone recently indicated on a knitting forum, one's yarn stash aptly performs double duty as insulation in our homes!
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Fall is officially here in the Willamette Valley. The air is cool, but not too cold. The trees have burst into their brilliant colors, swaddling the valley in a multicolored quilt, stitched through with green mounds of blackberry briers. We've entered into our late autumn/early winter weather pattern a bit early this year: Cloudy, rainy off/on, 65 degrees daytime, 45 at night. Wood smoke trails from chimneys and brush piles, making asthmatics cringe -- but I digress.
At this time of year the wools feel softer to the hand, their shades more pleasing to the eye. The oak leaf tans and taupes, maple golds and crimsons, and the sweet gum burnished violets and reds, all beckon to be cast onto my needles. As much as I love their singular beauty, sometimes the crazy patchwork garment of the pin oak catches my fancy and I strand two or three colors together.
But all this planning can become tiring. Then all I want to do is curl up in my chair with a steaming cup of Colombian Supremo, ala splash of canned milk, a couple of oatmeal raisin cookies, my latest sock autopiloting on the needles, and gaze out the window at the autumn leaves.