Knitting Reincarnation

There is no need to check the calendar; it is late autumn. Each night begins earlier and earlier and the daylight time is decreasing in noticeable increments. As the winds blow, rubbing bare tree branch against bare branch outside, the chillier temperatures leak into the house through unseen cracks. It is clear that winter is coming. It’s time for me to start a knitting project.

I usually knit only in the colder weather. I’m not an expert knitter, but, I find it very soothing and almost trancelike. The strands of yarn loop and curl around my fingers cross over the needles to transform into a new shape. Stitch by stitch the connections are made by my hands, my heart and my soul. The winding yarn wraps family, friends, people who knit and places both known and unknown to me all in one re-embodiment.

As I pick up the knitting needles, I remember the time when my great-uncle Eustace asked me with a solemn tone, “Do you know what ‘dyed in the wool’ means?” I was a young child at the time and I had no idea. We were visiting in Nova Scotia. My grandmother’s spinning wheel was still prominent in the front room of the house. It was a working farm where cattle, poultry and sheep had been raised for years to feed and support the family. So, I was sure that my great-uncle would know the answer. “Well,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “It means that the sheep were left out in the rain and their wooly coats shrank around their necks strangling them.” My father began to chuckle at this point, assuring me that it was a joke.

Knitting not only connects me with people it also connects me to places I have been. A finished knitted garment will remind me each time I wear it of the place I sat as it was created with my fingers. The ones I keep to wear myself all have stories. Some of the ones I give away have stories too, like the ‘comfort caps’ a group of us from church made last year for the local Cancer Treatment Center.

In my storage bin there are skeins each packed in tightly wrapped plastic bags. One bag holds sand-colored soft medium weight wool, purchased in Blacks Harbour. Handling this yarn, I remember the journey we made to Grand Manan Island. By the time I discovered that I did not have enough yarn to finish the project, I was a long way from New Brunswick. Another choice in my collection is a bulky green wool that still smells of lanolin even after several years. This yarn I purchased from Peace Fleece. With it, I had attempted to knit a “Coup d’etat Cardigan” only to discover that I had gotten hopelessly confused about the cables. A third bag holds remnants from a finished project. Selected in the Wilde & Wooly Yarn Shop, it is a brilliant blue shot through with white strands reminding me of the mist rising over the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The last bag I pull out is a half-finished vest in black tweed. In the cold of the November afternoon, I can see that the project is flawed beyond repair. So, as I have done many times before, I unravel it row by row. Time for it to return to a ball, until my creativity is rejuvenated and I am inspired to begin again.

There is a satisfaction in turning my past failures into a success. What better time than now?