My dad likes tools. He has a basement chok-full of ’em, and you know that he is out to buy more when we’re doing a project, and he sort of scratches his head and mumbles “hm, it would be nice if we could furnish the floors with this thing that I don’t already have”.
That’s how I feel about knitting. I love buying new yarn, making up projects in my head, calculating, measuring and watching the fabric grow in my hands. I know deep down that it’s a completely unnecessary and slightly archaic practice, but it keeps me at peace and forces me to sit down and relax, when otherwise I tend to be aflutter.
Knitting is knowing the rules and how to break them. The basics are excruciatingly simple, yet there are hundreds of techniques and an infinite way of combining them. I like to dream up new ways of constructing garments. New possibilites, new restrictions. The fabrics are made of dream-stuff, then come to life in fuzzy thread, making it’s way onto my boy’s head. Having it’s own little life. Just like my boy who once dwelled under my heart, but now grows ever more independent and aware.