Very Little to do with Socks

It was one of those days. You know the kind I mean. Everything went wrong. No one could find socks, everyone needed something ironed at the last minute in spite of my pleading the night before to get things ready. My patience unraveled completely. I found myself locked in one of those arguments with my teenaged son. You know the kind I mean. I was actually shouting at him about controlling his temper. Yeah. The world had gone crazy. I got everyone where they needed to go and even got them home again, but I was still out of sorts. There was nothing for it. I put myself in time-out and went to my room.

The weather was beautiful-all bright blue skies with flaming foliage below, but my still-thin skin was used to the humid summer air that is as fat and plump as a down comforter. This thin, clear stuff left me chilly on days like this one. The heat was not on yet, so in addition to everything else, when I went to my room, I was cold and achy all the way to my bones.

I stood in my closet to change my clothes. I was drawn irresistibly to my knitted things. I have lots of fleecy sweatshirts and running jackets, but they were too high-tech and put-together for today. I needed something comfortingly imperfect that would accept me in my utterly unreasonable grumpy state. Something with pills and maybe a moth hole. So, I looked over my sweaters and chose the oldest and most worn. It was my first real, original design and as it slipped over my head and settled into its place on my body, I felt somehow better. LIke an old friend was embracing me, but one who didn't need to hear words to understand how I felt. My breathing eased for the first time that day. From there I went to my dresser and chose socks in the colors of the forest, so I could hide out a while. I also chose leg warmers that were unbelievably boring to knit but I couldn't resist the beautiful yarn, so I finished them. They made me feel like a survivor instead of a victim. Thus ensconced and feeling not only warmer but somehow more myself, I took refuge under my covers and had a lovely good cry and a nap.

When I woke up, the earth was quietly spinning again, whirring along on its old axis and the air felt fresh and clean, not cold and menacing. I fingered the stitches on my knitted companions, grateful for their friendly familiarity. I have always found comfort in the act of knitting, and in the act of giving my knitting to others, but today, my knitting literally comforted me. I was able to remember that with a vision, a little knowledge, and the endurance to do the same thing 50 or 60 thousand times, something beautiful and lasting can be created. The dropped stitches can be picked up, a new ball of yarn can be added, and the stitches will hold if the needle falls out.

I got out of bed, folded up my cozy treasures and went to do some knitting of another kind.