unraveling.

One of my oldest friends is in hospital — she’s recovering, thank you, but it will be a long time yet. I hadn’t any idea to knit her something until she emailed me this past week. It was a brief letter, just hello, I am here, I love you, and thanking me too for the package I had sent her last month, when I knew she had gone in but not when (or if) she would come out. I’d sent it into the void, as it felt like, and the letter I included stopped in mid-thought as if I had nothing more to say — at least nothing that would emerge.

Hearing from her was difficult. I guess it’s always difficult to speak to someone on the edge, someone who is healing from something vast and deep and unshare-able — and knowing as we both do that healing is an elaborate process of letting go.
Meanwhile, winter is coming; the winds are colder. For me, winter is thick hats and cold fingers. It’s being cold and tired and alone under the enormous blue sky — and coming inside to warmth and safety, too. Both of those things at once. They exist together.
Meanwhile, I have this luscious blue yarn … if I unravel these mittens that I never wear… and a pattern. Yarn & pattern together are perfect.
If I have enough.

Weigh the yarn. Check the pattern. Check the other projects.
Pattern calls for 248 yards.
Average project uses 154 yards.
I have 170 yards.
I’m going to try. I’m going to be brave. And I know that usually ends with a pile of unraveled knitting and bad language and hurt feelings … but I have a lot of superstition and a lot of hope.
Wish me luck.

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