Thursday, February 11, 2010
stories and stitches
I knit. I'm not a good knitter, but I knit. I like the way it feels to be moving while I'm sitting still. When possible, I keep a knitting project or the means to start one with me (along with whatever book I'm reading and a notebook with ample blank pages--those two things have been part of my leaving-the-house assemblage since grade school). Sometimes I listen to music while I knit, and sometimes I let the activity around me dictate my accompaniment.
I find the rhythm of stitches and rows soothing as I let my thoughts wander. I take frequent breaks to look around, to read a page in a book, to respond to a text, but I'm always glad to return to the progress of my project.
When I picked up the afghan that Grandma Kay had sent to me, I found myself quickly lost in its story. Grandma V (who recently passed away) crocheted it. I don't know when she made this afghan in particular, and I don't know why Grandma Kay chose this one to send to me. I like the way it smells and feels and looks, and I wonder at what its existence saw before joining my growing army of blankets (I kind of have a problem with excessive blanket acquisition that started at least two decades ago). I don't know what Grandma V watched or saw or listened to or thought about while she was making it, but the possibilities give me chills. It may have enjoyed a quiet, tv-in-the-evenings sort of life before, or it may have covered a cold lap during a warm conversation. Maybe it was tucked into a closet after it was made, or maybe it was intended for a recipient it never met.
I wonder, and I wonder if maybe I'm just far too inclined to ascribe significance, but that realization has never stopped me before. Brings a new meaning to handmade gifts from friends, doesn't it?