The [K]nothingness of Knitting

-->

Clyde's 3-corner wool hat, top

Clyde's 3-corner wool hat, front

I have crocheted since I was a kid, but I re-discovered knitting in my 40’s, when I bought a silly hand-knit dreadlock hat from a Peruvian woman in Minneapolis and wanted to copy the pattern. I love the feel of wool—I have a terribly neglected spinning wheel and a huge stash of raw silk, as well as sheep, alpaca, and even some camel wool I could be spinning into gorgeous yarns. I’ll get started on that as soon as I can fit into my Sleeping Beauty dress & gauntlets again.

Joe's & Masha's Tassel Hats

In the meantime, I have two baskets beside my chair. I keep one filled with balls/skeins of every conceivable weight, texture, and color of yarn. The other holds my current knitting projects; I usually have at least two going, so I don’t get bored. I’m already stockpiling next year’s Christmas presents. I’m also building a stash of baby hats for any family/friend new arrivals who pop out next year, and for my amazing sister-in-law, who does mission work in Haiti twice a year and takes baby hats to new Haitian moms (you can donate to this local organization by going to http://www.helpinghandsforhaiti.com/donate).

BS Brain Hat, in progress

I’ve always felt like knitting allows me to sit around and watch bad TV, guilt-free, without my grandma’s “idle hands are the devil’s workshop” ringing in my slightly-addled brain (I don’t believe in the devil, but I DO believe in my grandma's ability to come back from the Great Beyond and give me SUCH a scolding). And since BS, knitting has also been providing me with two other essential functions: Occupational therapy and mindfulness practice.

Handwarmers, Tassel Hat, Dreadlock Hat

When I first got home from the hospital, knitting was painfully slow. I didn’t have much fine-motor control on my left side, so even holding a knitting needle was rough. But I stuck with it. Mom and I watched movies and knitted simple square dishrags. As my brain re-routed, knitting got easier. Shucks…I’d wager the knitting actually helped my brain forge new neural pathways. And it was waaaay more interesting than raising my arms to shoulder-level three times, which was one of the THREE exercises a therapist gave me on my ONE visit; the other two were to touch my nose with my left index finger, and to lift my left leg from a seated position (I never went back to “therapy”). In fact, everything about knitting was stimulating for my struggling brain and my clunky left side—feeling the yarn, winding skeins into balls on a nostepinde, coordinating colors, choosing needles, and the knitting itself. And finishing a project helped me see that I was making progress not just in my hat stash, but also in my stroke recovery.

Crystal's Tassel Hat

I also discovered that I could turn knitting into meditation. Sans the bad TV, I could sit in a quiet room and simply be aware of the knitting—the feel of the yarn, the clickety-clack of my bamboo needles, the repetitive motion of yarning-over, the patient progress of adding one stitch at a time to a whole. I could practice not letting my mind wander beyond the knitting itself, not running scenarios in my head of the past or possible futures, not having imaginary conversations with a bill collector, not righting imaginary wrongs. I could practice being present—just keeping my attention on the knitting. It was/is incredibly peaceful and healing...therapeutic.

Super Sunny Handwarmers

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not just idling, burning patchouli incense and developing “knitter’s spread”—that Laz-y-Girl-shaped arse with its bulgy cushion of Doritos’ fat. I’m doing other kinds of therapy, as well: Baking, cooking, dishes, laundry, Christmas prep and cleanup, dog-walking, going to the gym, and getting ready for school (I go back to teaching half-time next week). But whenever I get a chance, you’ll find me cranking out another knitting project. Because every three-cornered wool clown hat improves my hand-eye coordination, stills my racing Type-A mind, and makes this a warmer, happier world.

Aversion Therapy & Home Industry

I’m easing into my post-fun summer penance now (and avoiding my new school year prep) by catching up on some home industry. I built a cage around my hearty wisteria, because the peacocks recently discovered it’s a delightful pea-dessert, and they ate the bottom half of the vine down to sticks in a single day. I remind the flock daily now that in Indonesia, peacocks are FOOD.

I’m doing a little aversion therapy with the peas, too. Peacocks mostly eat grasses and vegetation, but what they really love is cat food. So it didn’t take them long to discover that our adopted outside cat, Rickie Lee, has food on the back porch ledge. In fact, Zorro, our only black peacock and a flock hoodlum, is obsessed with Rickie’s food. He’s taken to hanging out on the back patio, and I’ve caught him several times on the ledge, polishing off the food in Rickie’s dish. I tried a billowy prayer flag pea-barricade, but the darn birds realized they could fly. So now when I feed Rickie, I stand by with a squirt bottle of water and zap Zorro (or the wayward girls he influences) whenever he makes a move for the cat food. This is what I’ve come to…shooing peacocks off my back porch. Who’d’a thunk…

In spite of serious, persistent spring and summer flooding in South Dakota (two main thoroughfares between our house and Little Town are still closed & under water), and the resulting constant buzzing clouds of bazillions of mosquitoes the likes of which I’ve never seen in all my years here, I’ve been picking, cooking and preserving our garden bounty: gooseberries, acorn squash, yellow squash, cucumbers, tomatoes and the sweet corn a friend gave us. I’ve stocked the freezer with whole grain blueberry muffins and bison mini-meatloaves, and we’ll have apples and wild plums to deal with soon.

Have I mentioned before that I love red wine? So Ray got me a winemaking kit last Christmas, and early this summer I turned the lower level of the greenhouse into my own little winery. I have my second batch of wine going now, a Chilean Malbec. I was encouraged to make another batch when I discovered (at our family reunion) that my first batch, The Damn Merlot (have you not seen Sideways yet?!?), is AWESOME!

I’ve also been knitting up a storm in accordance with a basic mathematical principle: Knitting + Discovery Channel = I’m not a slacker. I think I have several felted bags and 5 pairs of fingerless gloves now (not to spill the beans about what all my kids will be getting for Christmas).

I can also allay my slacker guilt knowing that I worked all summer doing freelance copywriting for the ad agency where I worked a few years back. Creative writing and copywriting are two extremes on the writing spectrum, so it was good exercise for me to strip things down to “Your Community Partner.” I wrote a couple video scripts, a few 30-second TV spots, some poster/banner copy, and lots of ads. Best of all, I got to hang with my old friends, who are a light-hearted, zany bunch of mad[wo]men.

Today I’m baking blueberry scones and blueberry buckle in preparation for a wild women’s weekend. I’m having a Row henna party Saturday, then when we’re all henna’d up, we’ll head to Little Town for another night of dancing when Ray’s band plays at our fave watering hole. Then on Sunday, I’m off to another Sisters of Perpetual Disorder women’s dinner, with a “picnic” theme this time.

Then I promise I’ll get to that school prep. Right after I organize my PEZ dispenser collection and re-grout the tub…

Knitting the Labyrinth

The semester is underway and I’m already so far behind, I can’t see the catch-up line in the foggy distance. I have three classes, several presentations or readings coming up, and the U’s student literary organization has a journal to publish by April. Let’s see…that leaves about 8 hours in 24 to eat/sleep/bathe, blog, and tend to the ever-demanding Row zoo. Family, friends & fun…hmmm…I guess I could cut back on bathing.

So I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed, and when the shifty feel cornered, they knit. For me, knitting works like koans, a labyrinth, or conundrums—those unfathomable puzzles that keep the mind or body simultaneously cranking away and at rest. Knitting is meditative—breathing & heart rate slow, blood pressure drops, twitching stops, muscles untwist, and for a minute or two, I’m once again a tolerable human being.

I have several projects going right now, including gorgeous alpaca & mohair fingerless gloves, a blue scarf/hat set knit partly with ribbon, and a kiwi scarf/hat set with splashes of red. I knit at night, when my brain can no longer process information or solve problems. I use fuzzy yarns and warm, softly-clacking wood needles. I drink wine or hot tea. I knit with a dog in my lap. I’ll stash the finished stuff in a basket and haul it out for Christmas presents next year.

But prairie folk are always looking for a better mousetrap. So I’m currently conducting an efficiency study to see if knitting plastic grocery bags into festive beanies, which I’ll knit on plastic needles WHILE I shower, would free up an extra 10 minutes I could spend with Ray, Mom, the kids & friends, without sacrificing personal hygiene. Think how grateful they’d be…for the cool hats, I mean.

Knitting the Prairie

We’re supposed to have our first serious frost tonight. I have a few plants to bring into the greenhouse—geraniums in a pickle crock, a China Doll and a schefflera, and I suppose I’ll have to pull up the last of the basil and figure out what to do with the curry and fennel. The tomatoes will have to fend for themselves. The vines are so thick, they can keep each other warm.

The flock stays fairly close to the house on these cool days. They like to hang out on the south side of the house against the greenhouse windows in the afternoon, where they can soak up the heat bouncing off the windows while they admire the mysterious and magnificent creatures in the reflective glass. I modified my spoilitude and cut back on feeding them, hoping they’ll do something about these grasshoppers—peacock popcorn.

Cool autumn nights are perfect for knitting, a fuzzy blankie on my feet, and skeins of wool yarn in my lap. I just finished Yogi’s new sweater in blue cotton and bright multicolored eyelash yarns, and I must say he looks very preppie chic in it, especially with the turtleneck rolled. The colors & furriness match his naughty personality. Jada’s sweater is plain variegated wool in earthtones, with a subtle lace edging—slightly girlie but still working-dog tough. I also finished five small drawstring bags in various colors of the most luscious alpaca, which I’ll fill with fun trinkets for Christmas presents.

I’m working on a möbius scarf right now, knit in a lacy stitch out of Lamb’s Pride worsted in a rich chocolate brown. I like the seeming impossibility of the möbius pattern—a scarf that appears to be an endless twisted loop, no beginning, no end. It’s a conundrum, much like life at Uncannery Row.

The cool weather also makes me long to haul out the spinning wheel. I’ve got tubs full of fiber to spin up, including a couple bags of Jada’s fine Australian Shepherd fur, some camel, alpaca, and—best of all—raw silk. I’ve been thinking, too, about spinning in some peacock down and maybe even some milkweed fiber. Spun together, these fibers would make an amazing desert-downunder-orient-prairie yarn. Then I could knit it up into the most fabulous overalls with a matching turban…mmm…

Birthday Bliss

July 11 was my birthday—Cancer in western astrology, Gemini in my Vedic chart. I haven’t sensed any bad natal juju, and so far, 52 feels just fine. Some birthdays can be hell. There was my 10th, when I didn’t get the pony. Or my 15th, when I didn’t get the VW Bug. Or my 35th, when I sank into a depression caused by the strange “laying on of fat” in my new post-childbirth years (three kids cooked up and/or nursed between the ages of 21 and 31), horrifying new wrinkies around my eyes and mouth, and the fear that I would never accomplish anything substantial. At 52, though, I’ve smartened up. The tendency to “run to fat,” as my mom calls it, keeps us delicate northern-Europeanish flowers cozy in even the most brutal South Dakota winters. My wrinkies, I’ve decided, are a beautiful testament to the ease with which I smile. And I understand now that anything else I do in this lifetime will pale in comparison to the world-altering achievement of raising kids who are compassionate, funny, intelligent, generous human beings. Ah, the power of positive thinking.

But this was a good one, starting with a truly blissful day at Uncannery Row. All three peahens skulked about, Debbie just off the nest for her daily visit in the yard, the other two with chicks in tow—after all the commotion, Wanda has six chicks, Mimi has one left. The peacocks are molting now. Our three adult males will shed their trains, the long tail feathers, entirely in the space of a couple weeks, so each day we cruise the grounds for feathers. Then they’ll eat eat eat (they don’t eat much during breeding/display season) and over winter, they’ll grow bigger, better trains for next spring. This was Junior’s first year to grow train feathers (males mature at 2-3 years), and he had a pitiful excuse for a train, with an odd eye feather poking out here & there. But he’s scrappy, and I’ve witnessed some fantastic mid-air kickboxing between Junior and the other two males as they’ve jockeyed for position.

I spent the morning and early afternoon pulling weeds, watering, and making 13 dozen dog treats, potential holiday gifts for my dog-person friends & relatives. “Yogi’s Spoiled Dog Liver Snaps” are made with chicken liver, whole grain flours, eggs, green bean puree, chicken broth and nutritional yeast. They were taste-tested & approved by Yogi and Jada, and I’ve since learned that they induce impressively offensive flatulence in the dogs. Perhaps a disclaimer on the gift labels…

Visited at Mom’s for a bit in the late afternoon, then to Millie’s for a “prefunc” (celebration held prior to a celebration) glass of wine, then to Carey’s for “cocktail hour,” an early evening gig with music by Nick & Owen. In spite of the 90-degree heat on the bar’s back patio, Ray, Millie, and Mom surprised me with a gorgeous cake made by my daughter, cake-decorator extraordinaire, that we shared around the bar. The cake even had little frosting peacocks. I had yummy dark beers, and the boys led the crowd in a delightfully hideous, off-key “Happy Birthday to You,” a Carey’s tradition. Then it was home for knitting to Dracula 2000 (I’m working on a 2-pointed baby hat with curly-cue tassels now), and finally, off to bed with the pack.

Today, we had a family birthday dinner at Uncannery Row. Mom (and Oprah), Ray (and Yogi & Jada), our youngest son (and his Aussie Copper), our daughter & her beau (and her Cocker Cooper), and Ray’s sister and brother-in-law (cat people). Mom brought ribs and roasted veggies, my daughter brought a cheesecake, Ray’s sister brought garden flowers, and the pack ran happily until they were all exhausted. Amazing family, great friends, piles of cake, good beer, happy dogs & fine music—I couldn’t have asked for a sweeter, more perfect birthday.

Guilt-Free Knitting

Yogi (on the right) had a play date today with his sister, Oprah, my mom’s new puppy (the puppy mom is a schnauzer, the dad's a poodle--you can see which parent the pups take after). They’re only eight weeks old, but their roughhousing would put my three brothers’ glory days to shame. Yogi and Jada had a sniffathon when we got home then had to play even more, so now the're both conked out dog-skin rugs.

That gave me time to pick cukes, dill, and basil and make a cucumber salad to go with a chicken stewing in the crockpot. Since the dogs are still counting sheep (Jada, anyway), I may even get some knitting in. I’ve been making kitty-eared kids’ hats lately—they’re quick & easy, and I can watch a movie without worrying too much about dropped stitches or reading complicated patterns.

That’s the thing about knitting: it’s really an excuse to relax, unperturbed by the voice in my head that screams “idle hands are the devil’s workshop” if some part of me isn’t moving. Ray was raised Lutheran, and I went to a Catholic girls’ school for a while (both traditions think they’ve got a strangle-hold on guilt), so that would have been plenty to keep me from the sin of sloth. But the nuns’ warnings were just frilly lace added to the sturdy guilt-woven fabric of my being by my grandma, the Presbyterian Pragmatist. She was the Master. “Why honey, if I had to wait for you to get up and help, the mopboard would never get washed.” Wash mopboard? Are you kidding? What IS mopboard?!? Another favorite was, “Won’t the other girls make fun of you dressed like that?” Wow…way to tackle that tricky fifteen-year-old self-esteem building, Gram.

Don’t get me wrong. I adored my Grandma, and while my mom worked two or sometimes three thankless jobs to raise four kids on her own, my Grandma, widowed by then, taught me how to keep a house, cook, garden, and be a strong-willed, outspoken, independent woman. She’s the reason I’m having roast chicken and cucumber salad for dinner. But I gotta tell you, when I sit down to knit in a minute here, you can bet your “Old Rugged Cross” my hands will be a blur.