I started this scarf almost a year ago, and worked on it through most of 2014. On and off, although looking back it's clear I spent more time not knitting than knitting. Such slow work, even after your fingers know the pattern. That's okay, because the process is the thing, at least as much as the finished piece. And besides, there it is, more finished than not.
Consider this my version of the New Year's looking forward/looking back post:
What if everything that came to you
was in fact some sort of gift?
Everything—
yes, even that.
The fact that you do not know how
to hold such a gift easily in your hands
does not make it something else—
inappropriate, say,
or dangerous,
or tragic.
Maybe it can be all those things
and gift, too.
The barrenness outside your window—
bare branches,
cold earth,
long strands of sunless days—
those are Someone’s art,
their gift to the world
just like this mist-colored yarn
in your hands.
The feel of it between your fingers,
the wrap and lift,
joining together and separating,
even the rhythm and click,
lift and pull
of the needles—
all are part of the art of it.
After a while you stop wondering
when it will be done.
You can love
the feel of the thing
growing beneath your fingers,
you can love touching your work
and seeing that it is good.
You can learn to thread yourself
into the length of it,
you can learn to tear out the mistakes
and re-work what went wrong,
you can learn to work backwards
as well as forwards.
You can absorb these things
right through your skin
until you breathe pattern and softness
and the sheen of fog-colored yarn
which you are slowly knitting
into clarity.
