I’ve been knitting and crocheting since I was around 7 or 8, and it’s still my very favourite thing to do.
My 1st knitted project was a round-necked jumper made with a 1960s stiff nylon yarn that mum had made something with, tired of, unravelled and discarded. Seduced by the vivid colour, I re-used it, wading in at the deep-end of knitting. No shallow scarves for me. It was a lovely green but a horrible yarn. It split horrendously. Difficult for my inexperienced and clumsy learners fingers, I wailed and spat. It felt horrible to wear – too tight, itchy and sweaty against my skin. So you could say my knitting-birth was pretty stressful for both me and mum as she guided me through it.
The 2nd project was, I think, a tank-top made from some dark brown Jacobs hand-spun mum had left over. This time the challenge was very twisty, constantly tangling up sticky raw yarn. I was fiercely determined; I had fallen in love with knitting!
After that was a voluminous stripey-thing made from yarn I bought myself. My first free-from-mum project. Either I didn’t get much instruction, or I just went my own way: ignoring advice, breezing over the boring rules of gauge and needle size. Secretively defensive of my work, I suspect the latter. It turned out HUGE, and became my most favourite item of clothing, hiding my body right through my teens and 20s.
I have made some beautiful and complex garments over my 50 year knit-career, some still going strong, others forgotten. Many stashed in my deceased-knitwear memory bank: the grey scarf I fancied made me look like a Tess of the D’Ubervilles that I lost in Scarborough while on a disastrous date; the intricately-cabled mustard sweater shared with my boyfriend-of-the-moment; a chunky cabled coat made in the months after my 1st marriage ended; my first hand-spun hat, left in a Northumberland pub in post-beer happiness haziness.
Most projects have incorporated at least one mistake, not always visible to anyone else but me. My disregard for rules, a propensity to miss details in my impatience and excitement to move on; I’ve been inclined to live with faults, rather than spend precious time unpicking. Dissatisfied but complacent. Complicit in my procrastination. Some of my knits were glorious achievements; others, not so much. And along the way, I’ve gifted a lot of knitting-time and knitted-love: babies clothing, blankets, jumpers, shawls, socks, scarves, hats, gloves, elephants. Things that were welcomed: warmed, soothed, pleased and pampered. Others rejected. Strands of my hair, my soul, woven in.
And it’s not been without its knitted-tantrums: hurling tangled expletives across the room, needles flying, ragefully declaring revenge on my own dropped stitches, abandonment of hope to the depths of a dusty basket. Realising the only way forward is to pick it up again, work out where I went wrong, and learn from my mistakes.
And it’s true that there have been abandoned messy knits, tangled and mangled. Beyond repair.
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These are things that my knittings reveal.
In my mid-40s, I read somewhere that Islamic rug-makers deliberately incorporate a mistake in a pattern to remind them that only Allah is capable of perfection. I embraced this. It felt like a relief. A casting-off of something I hadn’t realised was mis-shapen.
My knitting career is a reflection of my journey through this life: picking a stiff challenge, the occasional tantrum, sticking at it, abandoning a lost cause; independent, ignoring advice and rarely asking for support, relying on my own resources; and in the end getting pretty good at it, but not able to claim perfection. A bit slap-dash here and there. Getting better at finishing well, but often juggling two, three or more projects at a time. Overall, providing love, warmth, colour, and usefulness.
In fact, the more I reflect on this the more I am aware of all that knitting has taught me. It reflects life in all its glorious castings-on-and-off, colour changes, and stitch counting.
And I notice as I get older that I’m more likely to unravel, take advice, start again. I often check my gauge these days before starting, even though it’s a bit tedious (though not always: a Wild Knit is refreshing). I’ve expanded my skills to hand-spin my own yarn. Stepped out of my comfort zone to try new techniques. And I make beginners mistakes and huff, then laugh. Sometimes leaving them be, content with the rug-makers humility. Oftentimes re-tracing my steps to re-make rather than make-do. Recently I took apart an uncomfortable not-right-for-me thing, re-knit it into a shape I can use. It feels liberating to make what I have in life a good fit, instead of putting up with.
And still my most wished for super-power is to be able to knit like Niggling Nellie on her Skylark. Conjuring save-the-day knitted things from my needles liberally for my world. There’s still time!
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