Finding rhythm…

I’ve an old rhythm going. I’ve been crocheting again.

It is a blessed relief to return to something my hands know how to do instinctively. Knitting is a challenge I love with a fierce passion these days, but it still is not second nature as yet, and I must constantly focus and watch much of my work as I go. But crocheting, the first skill I learned involving sticks and string as a young women, is something I can do without much thinking.

There is a rhythm to crochet, it is by nature very repetitious act, especially when making blankets and afghan’s, and in those long rows a wonderful zen-like state takes over and before you know it I’m in the zone.

And so it was when I was suddenly presented with several hours of time in the car last Friday without a knitting project suitable for long repetitive rows while gazing out the windows at the scenery. At the last minute, as we loaded the car, I remembered my stash reduction commitment and a few more balls of Red Heart still lounging about, totally suitable for crocheting and equally good for the Ottawa Inuit Community Resource Center baby blankets I have been working on.

I grabbed two skeins and my crochet hook, and as we headed out the driveway I chained the foundation row, and began. I was startled to look down a time later, about a three-quarters of the way to our destination, to see how many rows I had accomplished. Darn near a quarter of the blanket was sitting in my lap! My fingers had worked steadily without thinking leaving my head free to enjoy the sunny countryside unfolding as we drove. It was the same for the drive home a day later.

This is the rhythm I still strive to achieve with my knitting. This total loss of time and effort, and complete feeling of ease and satisfaction that comes when your head no longer needs to engage in the activity of your hands. I know this peace will come with to my knitting in time, after all I have only been knitting a few years, and crocheting for more than 25 now, so it makes sense that I am not yet in the same place with my knitting as I am with crochet.

So every now and then it is a complete and total relief to return to the skill my hands know first without being told what to do.

Knit on…..

BSJ done – like dinner!

It is done and I am very pleased and the recipient seemed delighted to receive it this past Sunday!

Here it is:

The yarn is Vanna White worsted weight, in an acidic green (I have color corrected the photo as closely as I can to match the actual, but still it not quite right) and the contrast is a handsome teal – I was advised that the recipient preferred wash and wear, no hand washing, and so I did just that using 100% acrylic although I think EZ would roll over in her grave if she knew I didn’t use real wool! However, the Vanna White collection has a wonderful color range, and I had a hard time choosing, especially as we don’t know if the baby will be a boy or a girl. Still I think these colors will work for either.

I am starting to get my head around EZ’s way of dictating her patterns, but confess I still relied heavily on this spreadsheet from the boy who knits to keep my counts straight. The matching hat is a simple stockingette stitch round and round, with a contrasting rolled brim. Fairly unisex styling to go with the unisex BSJ.

I’m eyeing the mitred mittens in the Knitting Workshop as my next EZ project. And if you have not read EZ’s “digressions” in Knitting Around, I totally recommend doing so – it is an amazing glimpse into what must have been a truly fascinating and adventurous life of EZ.

Now it’s back to the last of the charity squares to get the knitting madness that surrounds my favourite family room chair, under control! Winter is fast approaching and these desperately need to be knitted up and gone, gone, gone off to the Inuit Community resource Center here in Ottawa!

Knit on….

A quiet moment....

I’m still here. But I’ve not much to say. The days are plodding by, entrapping us in the limbo that falls between normal and surreal.

Work, home, eat, sleep. The same as everyday. Normal.

But surreal and ever present in the house is Hodgkin’s cruel taunt that cancer does not take a vacation. Where summers should be for lounging and rejuvenation, good food and friends, and week long trips to cottage land, these days following chemo, DD1 is now reduced to many little episodes of sleep, sleep, and more sleep, punctuated by un-happy glances into the mirror at her Sigorney Weaver go-army shaved head. There is nothing for a mother to do. Neither hugs nor re-assurances are convincing enough that she is still an incredibly beautiful young woman. She is a study in contrasts, both vunerable and strong in the same moment. If I were a skilled photographer I would try to capture that contrast, but I know I am not and would miss the essence of her beauty.

She and I sat companionably last evening in the chairs on the front porch, talking of how hard this time is and the changes it is bringing about her, the house to ourselves for a change, but enjoying none the less the last of the fleeting sun, she knitting a new baby blanket in lovely ice creamy pastels, and I plugging away at the BSJ. It was that quiet time that I cherish and can never get enough of, where the noise of neighbourhood children begins to quiet, the birds start their evening songs, and I can breathe, somewhat safe with the assurance that we have made it through yet another day.

It already smells like fall in the early mornings, and we have not yet had a summer. Tomorrow we’ll do it all over again.

Knit on.