the Village Knittiot

In 23 minutes I am going to rush out the door of my office, descend eight flights of stairs and run (not walk) into the awaiting arms of my sweetie. After the indescribable pleasure of being scooped up in his arms for the first time in 10 days (aren’t I pathetic?), he’ll be whisking me away to four whole days of work-free bliss in my new hometown. We’ll have the long weekend to explore the city and then I will head back up here for a marathon 4 weeks of working before a much deserved vacation and trip back to the Mother Country (which is my new favorite way to refer to Minnesota where, of course, my mother resides).

Anyway, my best wishes to my American readers for a happy holiday. I could echo the sentiments of every other blogger who has noted this most typical of American holidays that involves more than a few of the 7 deadly sins, but I’ll refrain from pulling out my soapbox and just quote my favorite founding father:

“Moderation in all things — including moderation”

Benjamin Franklin (who, incidentally, founded the Philadelphia Zoo, which is the oldest zoo in the country)

Don’t mind me as I wax romantic and silly this morning. I can’t help it. I’m in love and, worst of all, I am living several hundred miles away from the object of my affections. And as if that weren’t a tragedy in and of itself, today is his birthday and I won’t be there to celebrate with him or kiss his earlobes good morning or make him breakfast burritos (his favorite). I always thought it would take a remarkably strong relationship to make the long distance thing work, even if it was only going to be for a few weeks, but now I know that it also takes a little bit of lunacy and the amazing ability to stop yourself from quitting your job in the middle of the week because you miss your partner more than you care about eating or paying the bills.

About 38 years ago (give or take an hour or two), a bright and shiny object was loosed into the world, and being the bird-brain that I am (Ooooo, Mrs. Frisby, you’ve got a sparkly! — 10 points to anyone - besides my husband - who can tell me what character uttered those words), I set off in the general direction of its impressive gleam. And let me tell you ladies and gents, gleam is the only word to describe it.

It would be no lie to say that the world lit up when I first saw my sweetie. Something happened with the sunlight and it could have been a scene from a movie the way he just suddenly seemed to glow all over – there was even music in my ears and magic so thick I could have reached into thin air and pulled out a handful of brightly colored ribbons (what did I expect, we were at the Renaissance Festival and everything is all music and magic). At the time I thought it was just love at first sight, but, hindsight being what it is, I see now it was much more than that, much more. It was like a recognition of an old friend, a coming home.

I am not fond of the concept of two people making a whole, because damn it aren’t we already whole people on our own? Or at least shouldn’t we be? But I’ll tell you one thing, there were pieces of the world that made more sense with Corvus in the mix. And rather than completing me as a person, it was more like I already had a whole library, but when he came along, he brought new works to the collection, old manuscripts and rich texts, ancient stories and modern myths, that rounded out all the edges. I might have been a darn good chocolate cake on my own, but wouldn’t you know that his lemon butter frosting just made all the difference?

Since then, my life has been filled with sparkly bits and glinting objects that refract the light and attract my bird-like sense of drama and curiosity. With my sweetie, there is no end to the new discoveries and sense of adventure. There are no limits to our growth as individuals or as people. There is no box to be crammed inside of and no compromises. So, sweetie, the only appropriate words I can ever think of on your birthday, and every day of our life together, are Thank You and I Love You. That’s about all there is. Beyond that, nothing else matters.

After staging the initial knitting class at work I worried that the excitement of my students might have waned a bit. As I said, I didn’t see in anyone’s eyes that look of fiber-rabidity that I associate with a true believer. But, Sister Sue encouraged me to remember that for many (herself included) the love of fiber starts out as a slow warming and builds up to a raging fire over time. Well, she was right. Over the course of the following weeks, nearly everyone who had been in the class approached me to say they definitely wanted to continue. I said, okay, you just let me know when. I have my supplies here everyday. At first one or two people would grab me once a week. Then a couple times a week three or four people would want to get together. Now, I am knitting almost everyday of the week. I find myself whiling away my lunch hour with nascent knitters and my inbox is peppered with e-mails from coworkers announcing their progress and/or purchases. One of the young women confessed yesterday that she got up early and knit a few rows while watching the news and then talked about how much it calmed her. I just wanted to hug her.

Because a couple of people have expressed an interest in crocheting, I’ve been picking up my trusty hook more often these days. It’s been awhile, so I feel a bit like I’m rediscovering an old friend. The most surprising thing is how natural it feels in my hands. It was the first thing I learned to do with “a little bit of string” and the woman who taught me instilled an intuitive understanding of the stitches, what they do, why they do it, and because of that, crocheting feels a bit less mysterious than knitting to me.

As I was thinking about this, I happened upon Tricky Tricot’s latest post — a review of an intro book on knitting and crochet. One section in particular really stood out. He said that while the book did a good job explaining the “how’s” of knitting, it failed to address the “why’s,” removing that intuitive factor that helps us plow our way through a poorly written, barely decipherable pattern. Or, gasp, to branch out on our own and try to create something unique.

I have mentioned in the past this feeling of being stuck, of not knowing how to get from one place to another with the knitting. Or, of getting into a really complicated section of a pattern and feeling as if I just need to keep moving forward blindly hoping it will all make sense as I go. Sometimes it does. Many times it doesn’t. Then I set the project down, I get out my books, I consult online sources, I e-mail a couple of bloggers, and only then am I back on my merry way. I sometimes feel as if I am learning in a vacuum. Books and blogs can only tell me so much…

What I really wish I had is a mentor, a veteran knitter or designer along the lines of an Anna Zilboorg or Elizabeth Zimmerman. At these moments, I also really wish I had a grandmother, someone to explain the art in not only knitting or sewing or crochet, but how to bake a hearty sourdough bread from scratch or how to get grape juice stains out of a linen tablecloth. This was the advantage that generations before us had — grandmothers and mothers who taught them these skills. Oh, I’m sure that generational passing on of domestic knowledge still happens, but not very often. Not that I want to relegate knitting to the realm of the domestic, but I think that what draws me so much to this art form, is the inherent practicality of it. A way in which to drape your loved ones in the warmth of a little woven magic. To give others the gift of your time and your hands.

I have high hopes that the move will expose me to more of a knitting, spinning, fibery community and help provide places I can gain the more advanced skills I am longing to learn. But for the next 36 days, it just me and my yarn curled up in a cozy chair in the home of my dear friend who is providing me with a safe place to lay my head until such time that I can finally be home with my sweetie (whom I miss more than I can tell).

Saturday is moving day, so this week has been intensive packing week. Lucky for me I have a husband with some foresight and an ounce (just an ounce, mind you) of sanity. He has the week off and is officially Packing Guy by day, thus significantly reducing the strain. Still, we are getting down to the wire, so the next several days loom ahead suggesting exhaustion and toil.

Our plans took on a new level of urgency when our long-lost realtor called us to let us know that everything has finally cleared up and we are closing on the house. Next Tuesday. So, rather than having the luxury of being able to move most of our stuff on Saturday and the rest as we have time, absolutely everything has to be out of the house this weekend. I’m so pleased that everything has worked out, but it certainly adds to the amount of work that needs to be accomplished in the next several days.

I have once again (this happens everytime I move) discovered that almost everything I own is books. Seriously boxes and boxes of books. At this moment in time I’m feeling really grateful for my renewed interest in the Library because it means over the last year we have accumulated far fewer books from the bookstore and consequently far fewer boxes need packing.

Also, my preoccupation with cooking has grown considerably in the last couple of years and as a result the rest of what I own is contained in the multitude of cupboards which grace my extremely large kitchen. We are going to have to get very creative in our new, ultra small, apartment sized cooking space

Finally, I am getting older. My back and my knees and my body are reminding me of this. Oh, and they are not failing to point out how desperately out of shape I am. This will change. With every major move I have found the energy to alter my life in a significant way. Over the last several years those alterations have taken on a health component. This move is the hurdle of physical activity. Something I have failed to conquor since giving up running several years ago (stupid knee).

Anyway, I am apologizing in advance for potential sporadic posting as the machinations of life will have me rather tied up, I imagine, until around Thanksgiving (which isn’t really that far away).

I don’t remember exactly when it was that I fell in love with index cards. I suppose it could have been that magical moment when we first learned how to research for school reports using them to keep track of our bibliography and all our notes. Does anybody else remember that method? (Does anybody else still use it?) You would gather your sources, write out an index card for each book or article you were going to use, then place a number in the corner of each card. As you worked your way through the books you would take notes on other index cards, taking care to mark the appropriate number on the corner so you could later match a thought, summary or quote with the correct source. When you were done, you could easily organize them by subject matter or rearrange them according to your outline. Me? Well, I’ve already confessed a love for research reports, so I’m not ashamed to admit my golden admiration for this ingenious method. Though I will admit that I chaffed a lot at the constraints of such linear and organized thinking. Over the years I have tried to sit down and think out just how I would construct my own personal data base for research projects, but I think I just like making the cards.

I suppose it could have also been using them as flashcards — an indispensable part of language, science and history classes or other environments where rote memorization came into play. Then again, it could have been the library and those old card catalogs that I used to spend hours pouring over. I always thought it was just the most incredible labor of love, all those books each in the card catalog at least three times — once for author, once for title and once for subject (sometimes for more than one subject) — all typed out in that blocky typewriter font with occassional handwritten notes added later or words and letters crusted over in thick clumps of dried white out.

At any rate, I developed a fondness for them, and on my desk I keep a rather large stack always at the ready. Occassionally the surface of my desk erupts into chaos and it is typically littered in index cards with notes about things I want to write, read, think about. Things I need to do or just want to do. And also notes about design. I have a fancy book that is supposed to help me with the designing, but you know what? I don’t like fancy books. I never write in them. They intimidate the hell out of me. I just like my plain, unformed index cards. When things get beyond the index cards, I usually just grab a plain spiral bound notebook and work from there. I suppose someday I’m going to have to graduate to a little graph paper for charting lace or cable, but once I’m there, I might as well just be working on the computer, which is probably what will ultimately happen.

As I continue to give some thought to the upcoming deadline for Amy Singer’s book, I have been scribbling down some thoughts and ideas on my various index cards. I feel a little intimidated by the whole design process and I think that working on small 3 x 5 pieces of paper at this point helps me keep it a little more manageable. Bite sized chunks of design. Still, I think it is time to branch out a little. Right now it feels as if I am just poking at the idea without really committing to it. I think I’m going to need a bigger piece of paper…

I wouldn’t necessarily classify myself as a superstitious person, but as it turns out, I really am. Especially about sharing good news. It is possible that superstitious is the wrong word and a more accurate description is cautious, but when it comes right down to it, I think my whole theory is a bit more mystical than practical, so consider this my virtual knocking on wood *knock, knock, knock*. Also, for a couple of people who have experienced an avalanche of rottenness this year, we are a little gun shy of counting our gift horses before they look us in the mouth, if you know what I mean.

But, the last couple of weeks have seen some rays of sunshine poking through the grey, cloud-speckled landscape of central New York. First, we had an offer on the house, and while things are not settled yet, they are well on their way to being so. I’m saving the dance steps for when we sign the last piece of paper turning our wonderful old house over to her new occupant. Second, my company, offered to keep me on full-time working remotely. There are some weird logistical things for the first 6 weeks, in which I will be working here and staying with friends while Corvus heads down to Philly for his own job search. At Christmas we fly back to Minnesota for our family gathering and then when we get back, I’ll start working out of the house in Philadelphia. Working from home has always been a dream of mine, so this is extremely exciting news. Also, flattering, as they were willing to try and make this work rather than lose me. Third, we found an apartment and are driving down this afternoon to sign the lease. We are then turning right back around and heading home, so this little chica is going to be exhausted. The place is in an area we like and, most importantly, close to the public transportation terminal. We arrive just in time for the SEPTA workers to go on strike. Impeccable timing.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to my wheel…