“The right word may be effective, but no word was ever as effective as a rightly timed pause.” Mark Twain

Greetings Dear Ones!

I woke up with a familiar little toothache in my hand this morning. I lay and listened to the drumming of rain on the tin roof above me and the whispered complaints of the hand as it stroked the head of the tiny dog snoring next to me.

“We did too much knitting last night,” says the hand. “Two complete hats and three rows of the lace edge on a shawl was utterly gluttonous. When will this end? That’s all we seem to do every night now…except for when you are plunging us into extremely hot water and vinegar baths to dye the wool we are about to knit. In every sense of the word, we are CHAPPED!” (I have damp wool hanging from a variety of garden implements propped on chairs in front of the wood stove. The house smells decadently of wet sheep and Easter eggs.)

“I’m sorry,” I tell my hand. “This is just what we do in Winter, unless you feel like taking the loppers to the blueberry bushes. That needs to be done too.” The hand aches harder just thinking about it.

“I just wish your mind could work without me working also,” says the tired hand. “There’s nothing left of me to play the fiddle, or scribble in Catholic cursive in your journals.”

“I need you,” I tell my hand, “to do everything I love. You carry the hay and water to my beloved animals; you caress the cheeks of those I adore; you feed me, dress me, help me make a living… I cannot DO or LOVE or BE without you and that amazing little thumb of yours. And, best of all, you help me KNIT and create all the wild things I imagine, in colors and textures I obsess over like an addict.”

I lie there and think of all the things I must do today. It frightens me that there is a part of my physical being that considers mutiny. Being Middle Aged is like being in charge of a platoon of renegades: One must ignore a lot of bitching in the ranks to get anything done at all and who knows when a leg or a back or a shoulder might beg off duty without leave. Repetitive stress on fine motor muscles IS an occupational hazard for the Creative types. Self care, though an irritating nuisance, is not optional.

“I’ll do my best to take care of you today,” I promise my hand. Then I remember I have twelve buttons at the shop to sew on a Naval Pea coat for a new customer. (I’m not going to mention that!)

Knitting by the fire in winter is a guilty pleasure I am trying to make less guilty by telling myself that I am going to sell some of these objects I create. The sheep need to pay their way, or at least a damn good bit of their staggering hay bills. I’ve got enough animals now that I cannot possibly process all the wool myself so this year, I brought it all to a little woolen mill in upstate New York that specializes in small-batch production and had it spun into yarn. Half that yarn is now in Minnesota being turned into socks by another woman and her husband who have a cottage industry making socks on antique knitting machines. They are going to make us two hundred pairs of “Old Fashioned” socks.

The rest of the yarn is now my playground. It’s that secret “other lover” I am seeing on the side of my regularly scheduled sober life of duties and obligations and makes me feel Alive and Daring in deep, dead Winter. I am thinking of it all the time, sneaking to Ravelry (a knittning site) on my phone, mooning over snoods, scarves, and Shetland lace patterns when I should be paying attention to meal prep or vacuuming. I am churning out hats and shawls like I need to slip-cover Vermont by Tuesday. Most fun of all, I am experimenting with dyeing—something I have never done before. The base color of all my animals blended together is a dirty Oatmeal…the grayish kind that has been left to harden in a pot for too long and has a tinge of brown skin on the edges. It’s soulful, nourishing, and pretty blah.

The good news is that it is taking to deep, rich, fabulous colors like a pre-schooler who just got into the finger paints. The bad news is that I dye much the same way I cook—without precise attention to time, temperature, or measurements (not to mention getting slop everywhere around the kitchen). So! Can I reproduce any of these colors ever again? Who knows?

“It means every skein is its own little one-of-a-kind miracle!” gushes my inner Good-Fairy-Kindergarten-art-teacher.

“It means you are a hasty slacker,” says Prudence. “This is why Science didn’t want you.”

“The heck with Science,” I tell Prudence, “THIS is art. It’s alchemy. It’s Magic.”

Sitting by a fire, surrounded by steaming hanks of dripping yarn, thumbed paws on needles clicking rhythmically, I have never been more contented in my life. This is Bliss! Knitting is when I do my best spiritual work: Alone, I can meditate, ponder, plan, or pray for hours. In the company of others, I can listen deeply without interrupting. Comfortable as my bum is, I find it hard to sit on it for any length of time without busy hands. As a person who suffers appallingly from ADHD, knitting is the original “fidget spinner.” (Why we give children fidget spinners instead of teaching them to knit blows my mind. “Let them knit!” I say. Let them turn that need for soothing, peace-rendering repetitive motion into a woolen Beauty that warms both a heart and a body part and through the triumph of creating something of true Worth can rescue their often poor self esteem!)

“Idle hands are the Devil’s playground,” says Prudence approvingly, “but motion for its own sake seems wasteful.”

“Unless it’s Dancing,” I point out.

“Dancing! Tut!” Prudence straightens her petticoats and huffs. Dancing alarms her to her core.

For sure, the Devil has no playground near me and a set of number 5 circular needles—though I don’t know who else to blame for the now permanently splotchy purple kitchen countertops. He’s definitely nearby… probably in the Details.

It feels great to be a little further down the pipeline of this dream I’ve been dreaming for a long time—of creating art and garments from my own fiber animals. It’s taken the kind of hard work and patience that makes intarsia knitting look like child’s play. At the start of a New Year, it’s nice to continue on with Old dreams—to revel in the rewards that only come as a result of dedication and faithfulness—and to have the gift of fresh inspirations. (BEANIES!! Yay! I need to make at least twenty of these!) The road turns as we travel, giving us fresh vistas on our way. Same beloved book…new chapters. This is exciting!

It’s also good to rest, to picnic and to pace ourselves, to listen to the chitter-chatter of our bones and bodies telling us what is possible. Harmony is required—in ALL things, even dreams coming true. My inner Progressive tries to tell my hands to hurry “anything worth doing is worth over-doing” but they disagree. So I listen and Conserve. I’ve learned.

All this knitting has been accompanied by the kind of Contemplation that reveals Happiness and Happen-ness are close cousins. The Conservative and the Progressive can be good friends for the health and wealth of the whole being, whether sweater, person, or country. Yes, we must work for progress—diligently, cheerfully, hopefully—stitch by stitch, one stitch at a time. Also, we must wait—somewhere in the middle of our “Pipeline” of Promises—contentedly observing the gradual unfurling that can only happen in Right Timing. We cannot rush; we cannot force. We must conserve resources and trust that they will be replenished adequately with proper stewardship.

Winter is that reminder. It is a time of sleepy solitude and secret fresh starts that will lead to Great Things by Spring—if we budget accordingly. (And take a damn nap!!)

I wish you deep, sweet rest for your weariness Dear One—whether it is a weariness brought on by enthusiasm or grief. Keep Mending. Keep doing your amazing work but with extra care and gentleness for your precious body, especially your hands. You hold the new world in them.

I love you Sew Much.

Yours aye,

Nancy