I’ve written about ten cover letters for jobs this week, so I’m pretty sick of writing about myself.
I live on my family’s small farm. I’m unemployed. I like to knit, cook, and read. My cat likes to help with all of these activities, even though he’s not very good at them.
But I do love knitting. It’s pretty magical.
It was the end of a semester, in College (I feel really strongly that it was spring but chronologically it was probably fall). I was hanging out at a friend’s apartment (a place known as the attic, in a house known as the Orphanage… I’ll let you fill in the gaps about cleanliness and general state of repair) with this guy friend of mine. We were quite headily enjoying altered states of consciousness as created by a certain herbal substance, and I was knitting and we were chatting.
My friend, his mind quite altered, was incredibly fascinated by my knitting, by the process of creating each stitch, and thus new fabric, from yarn. He sat watching me knit for a bit, then demanded that I explain how it worked. He then insisted that he could knit, because “in Russia, they teach us to knit in kindergarten. Everyone. F*king communist bastards.” I obliged, and handed over my scarf, then watched as my friend proceeded to drop the first stitch three times in a row before cursing at the needles and throwing them back in my lap. And then we sat there and both just stared at the yarn and the needles as I knit another row, and were just utterly mesmerized by the yarn.
I’m pretty sure I should have been spending that time studying for finals or something, and I’m definitely sure we went to go play on the swing outside the Orphanage after. But for some reason I really love this memory, this sort of moment out of the usual crush of school and exams and “College Life” where, for a while, the process of making cloth out of string was truly awe-inspiring. And I loved my friend’s reaction, but that’s another story for another place and time.
Sometimes, especially when I get towards having a fully completed item, I slow down still and watch (now without the herbal augmentation) as slowly, or not so slowly, my sweet little stitches transform innocent, plain yarn into items with dimension and shape and warmth. Which is, I suppose, a bit cheesy, but that’s how I feel about knitting.