Perhaps I don't still hate the Beach.

Ginkgo Shoulderette Shawl

Off the needles: the Ginkgo in Birthday yarn! Shepherd Sock in the Intrigue colourway, from The Loopy Ewe. I used about 400 of the 435 available, making the large size and plan to throw away the pattern and never knit it again! The last 33 rows made me seriously think about just ripping the entire thing out and knitting something else. It was just not my flavour of lace. In order to get the dramatic curves there was a lot of decreasing against the grain. Tedious. Very tedious. But I think the shawl and the colourway are a perfect match for each other and look forward to wearing this often.




About the title.  Friends who lurve the beach were teasing me about my disdain for it.  Was it the sand? The wind? What? And it's some of those things, but mostly it's the loneliness. This provoked much merriment, but made me wonder where the answer came from.  And in thinking on it, I found my answer. 
When I was very young and still lived with my Mother she used to live for the days she was off work and could go deep sea fishing.  I was an unfortunate child for her to be blessed with, as the mere thought of a boat induces mal de mer.  Simple solution?  Drop me at the beach for the day.  Usually before dawn, and pick me up sometime after dark.  And there...there is my hatred of beaches.  A child under ten with no money, no lunch, and no idea when-if-someone will come get them.  The mornings were nice, I always knew it would be hours, so I would play on the swings and such, knowing no one would be looking for me.  But then, the day would get hot, I would be hungry, and I would start to haunt the "boring" end of the beach because woe unto the child who was not waiting at the seawall when Mother pulled up.   And there were a couple of occasions where they forgot me until after they'd been out drinking for hours, gone home, and no kid.  Oops.  
So beaches make me think of being alone and no one ever coming.  Which is silly, because decades later I'd get in a taxi and kick the arse of anyone who stood me up at the beach like that.  After I ate lunch, of course.  Better yet: I'd drive so I could leave whenever I wanted. 


What the heck does this have to do with shawls? Nothing. Everything.  It has to do with having a life so rich that episodes like that don't twist you into someone bitter.  With having good friends.  Fabulous friends.  Friends that when disaster strikes send yarn from your favourite yarn store.  It's all tied in with courage and fear, and the knowledge that in my life today: someone will come eventually if I just ask.

Why knitting is better than drugs or drink.

When you've got mental worries and you're high, you may not be worried but you're not solving anything either. When you've got worries and you knit, you bang out a sock in a week.

Pointelle on 1.75 mm Blackthorn DPNs with Fiesta Baby Boom. 3 ounces of a 4 ounce skein

Drunks usually give you their opinion whether you want it or not. Knitters usually just become fascinated with their yo,K3tog,yo rhythm. In my case, this is a good thing, because so often what I'm thinking is definitely not something that should be shared if harmony is desired. It also creates a buffer of time, you don't just leap into the fray, you wait until you've reached a good point in the chart to put the project down. By then, the urge may have passed, or you've rethunk it.

When drugs are your choice, you tend to stick to only a small menu. When you're done with a knitting fix, there's a wide field of possibilities for your next toke/pipeful. And there's no problem if someone asks you to pee in a cup. You've probably needed to go for an hour but kept doing "just one more row."

When you're drunk and hug someone, you mostly spill their drink. When you knit and hug someone, they have warm clavicles for years.

Losing the battle or surrendering the dance?

If hope is the soft belief that something good is on its way, despair is a cutting blade that shears off the future and poisons every sip of the present.

I lost a friend this week. Actually, I lost two. Both were by choice. One by my choice, a realization that energy invested would never equal energy returned.

The other, by his choice. As a young man with a painful and terminal disease he opted to take his own life. His wife is devastated, yet accepting. Actually, that’s been the interesting part. Experiencing the shockwave of reactions. It really brings home the concept that; as we let people into our lives they begin to feel that they own a piece of it. And they become angry if we take that piece away from them. No matter how small it was.

Conversely, the people with the largest investment have been most at peace with his decision; regardless of their own personal beliefs. The more intertwined the thread of his life was with ours, the more his pain transmitted to us, and our own pain makes us realize why he would want a release from that suffering. People with a smaller part in his life feel that he was selfish, wanting him to battle on for Their sake.

That’s where the challenges of love come into play. How to balance your own wants with the respect and acquiescence of another’s decision. And conversely, how to make your own decisions with kindness to those you care about. In the end, you have to knit to your own gauge and adapt the pattern to suit.

Leading a life of quiet...

"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation." HD Thoreau

In my case, not desperation, just quiet habit. I just keep chugging away. Better suited to Thoreau's "...and makes life seem inexpressibly serene and grand."

I cast off Wisp-Act II. Led on only by my remembered love of the first Wisp. It was no less a tedious bore to knit the second time. And after Chelle's Wisp arrived I did give serious consideration to ripping, but decided on a Wisp finished as better than a skein unknit.

I finished the Right Pointelle. With the non patterned foot. I did continue the extended ridgeline because I don't think that will be as annoying as weird lace patterns embossed on the top of my foot. And being a good knitter - promptly cast on the left one. Check for that photo in about 5 months.

Unraveling a friendship

We’ve all had them: those projects that we really like, that we dream of, visualize, fancy. Yet…they are filled with pitfalls.

First you swatch. The gauge, not quite right.
Swatch again, again, the math just a smidge off.

In the end, you decide…I want this project, I will knit really tightly, really loosely, on mismatched needles…I will mold myself to make this work. Rarely DOES this work.

Work around in hand, you cast on. Knit eagerly, but…it’s not right. The work doesn’t match the pattern. The pattern is a lace shawl, why are you suddenly knitting a 3 armed jumper for a turtle? You decide you’re tired. You’ll go to bed, and when you’re fresh, you’ll start again.

Okay, pattern, yarn, needles, good light, nice drink, everything you need to create a masterpiece. You carefully read the pattern. It sounds like it works. You cast on again; noticing the yarn is starting to look a little frayed. Quickly you find yourself back at the same wall.

Exasperated you hurl the project into a corner. You check the Web for errata. Aha! There it is- errata. You didn’t realize the pattern was written by a Murri in native dialect then translated by Ainu before being published in the form you purchased. With such a complex difference in backgrounds and terms…no wonder you were confused. It was a communication problem.

You break off the old yarn. You’ll start fresh with new yarn symbolizing your new understanding.

You make progress. Until you notice…what’s that sleeve like thing doing there again? There are NO appendages on a shawl! How did you end up here again?!?!

You set it aside. You get on with other knitting. Knitting that behaves. Knitting that works with you to create lovely things. Knitting that entertains, amuses, fulfills.

Occasionally you walk by the table, lightly touching the frustrating project. Lulled by the yarn, the tactile feel, or the depth of color. Your annoyance fades.

Perhaps, one day, you need those needles. The yard gnomes have made off with every other pair of needles that size you own. It’s a bizarre holiday in which all purveyors of craft supplies are closed. You are forced to go back to that project.

You pick it up, intending to place the triangle shaped round shawl on a leader line and use the needles elsewhere. But the yarn draws you in. You fish out the pattern and decide on a “quick row.”

Fatal mistake.

You’ve wandered out of the DMZ and are now back in the sphere of influence known as enemy territory. You realize this only as you hear the click of the landmine when you step on it.

Slipping free of this situation becomes your only goal, you no longer care about the potential beauty of the shawl. You want only to survive with everything intact.

You ease the needles away from the laddered stitches. You hold your breath, and in one desperate move- whip the cable from the work and leap back. The yarn falls on the floor, where you immediately begin a frenzied unraveling, winding it into a ball for the stash. You put the pattern at the bottom of a stack at the edge of the bookcase and bless yourself for a narrow escape.

Sometimes, when you are hunting through the stash you come across that ball. And the pain is still tangible. You think of all the potential that is contained in that yarn. But it still hurts so much that you can’t cast on again because the wound is too fresh. So you set it aside and knit a life with projects that don’t require so much effort to be happy with.

Spring vacation

Knitting doesn't always work the way we want it to. Sometimes we do everything right...it disappoints. Sometimes we do nothing right...and it shines.

I finished my Elysium. And it was a beautiful spring day so I rushed right out to take photos- ignore the feet of snow in the background, it really was a shortsleeve kind of day.

I finished the knitting gamble 3 repeats short. In fact, I had to unravel my swatch to bind off. But that small amount of asymmetry doesn't really show. I had calculated that I had about 800 yds, the pattern called for 700. But since I don't have a yardage meter...I'm blaming my math.

I really like how the garter short rows played up the color sequencing of the fiber. None of which was planned. I just let the chips fall where they might during the spinning and plying. I did fiddle with the sleeve knitting using two skeins to keep each sleeve from being 2 big blocks of color.

In all, this was a lovely exercise in Acceptance, from the spinning through to the wearing. Now if you'll pardon me, I have to go find my halter top.

Vortumna

I'm currently engaged in the yardage gamble. I spun my Polwarth into a 3 ply worsted/aran weight and have been knitting away on Elysium. Of course this means that this is a One of a Kind yarn, and when it's gone, it's gone.
So many knitters know where this is going:

I may have misjudged the amount needed. Elysium is knit in one piece sideways from the left front around to the right edge. I am 5 of 12 repeats in on the right front and the remaining yarn is looking Very Scanty.

All I can do is keep knitting to the bitter end and see how close to the mark I come. Then if it's not enough, see what I can rig up to make it work. I think I can pull it off (Bona Spes).

Because in Knitting, unlike Life, I can steal from the beginning to reshape the end. Life on the other hand, is an unknown yardage and content with a sometimes dubious design.

Riding the WooWoo Train or Fear is a terrible Master

There are countless things that exhort us to remember that “it’s not the destination, it’s the journey.” All manner of trite crap that has to be dusted is stocked in countless gift shops.
I was up in the wee hours this morning talking to a friend who-having previously been gut punched emotionally-was riding the gyrostat.
I found myself using that cliché. And having it brushed off because it IS a cliché. But there is a great deal of truth to it.

On the big scale: it’s true about Life. We’re all rushing toward Death. Knowing that destination, you don’t really have a choice except to make it about the journey. PS- this is a key point; don’t forget it.

On the medium scale: it’s true about…well…lots. Would I have not had my children if I had known they would die? No, what I learned from them was worth it. Would I have not loved so passionately if I had known the flames would flare up, consuming me and leaving ashes? Didn’t the cinders of my heart eventually find new life and grow again? Would I have been so open to the friend that betrayed me? Wasn’t it a painful lesson that taught me about mercy and compassion? Does a childhood filled with the terrors that still give nightmares keep me from remembering the stacks of the LA central library with smiles? And aren’t books still some of my greatest friends?

On the small scale: Would I have put so many hours into that project if I had known just how unflattering it would be? I did learn new techniques, spent time enjoying the yarn, and discovered something valuable about my physiology. That unfortunate episode in the salon? That outfit in the closet? Those delicious tidbits that stuck to my waistline? All ended poorly but were fun in the making.

The bottom line: I think fear comes from trying to control the outcome. And that joy is found-or rejected- in the journey.

Cautiously Optimistic

Perhaps it’s going to be Spring soon. Not outside my window, but in my own heart. It’s definitely been Winter inside my head the past few months. Blizzard conditions. Caught up in a vortex that is flashes of sky as you are engulfed in a white world of snow.

When you’re in it, you don’t see that safety is Right There, or indeed, that you are standing on your front porch.

I stopped doing the things that brought joy. Most of which are free. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t depressed; in fact I intentionally spent time with my funniest coworkers because laughter is essential for survival.

But anything that required effort? Just the thought became overwhelming – or arbitrarily pointless. It wasn’t so much that I stopped giving a damn; rather that my give-a-damn stopped getting out of bed. Books sat unread, podcasts went unlistened to so long that they stopped updating, yarn porn didn’t thrill. Workouts were something I did because I had to maintain levels and a box of cookies sat on the counter so long they grew mold.

Even people fell to the wayside. Many said “if I can help, let me know.” And, ironically, the one person with whom I have no dialogue was the one person who specifically said “if you want to talk, I’ll listen.” But my own inability to reach out…to say the first word…left me more desperately isolated than ever.

Like most Springs, it started with a song –not of the Tufted Titmouse, rather of the sexy hip swiveling variety-I heard it in the background of a show and was compelled to buy it. Then a UFO began to look enticing again. How could I have forgotten the squish of a handspun Polwarth?

Next a skein of BabyBoom begged to be taken off the wall and cast on, whispering a siren song at me until I did.

So while the situation isn’t any closer to being resolved, and indeed, looks more dire than ever, I am cautiously optimistic that it’s Spring and everything will be okay.

Grateful and Tearful

For the patterning people out there, if you think this looks like Wisp, you would be correct. If you think I knit it that quickly you would be WRONG. I did cast on another one for me, but I really hate the pattern and it's been a slow slog. So it will now be ripped out and turned into something else.

This tasty little morsel came in the mail today from a sweet friend (sister from another mother). Softly scented of SOAK and gently warm.
She read the tale of the Wisp that went Will O' the. And thought that one good turn deserved another. So she ordered the crack yarn in a rich Mahogany color and must have sat at her needles like Sylvia Plath at her typewriter, banging away until done.

Even the postal service conspired to make it a perfect gift. She paid hard earned money to ship it quickly, they dawdled, which meant it arrived on the penultimate day.

I usually race around with a Kiss my Tiara type of attitude but life has been worrisome lately. Not just for my friends, but on a personal level, there's so much to think about. So much to plan, to maneuver, to weigh and balance. So despite a lovely weekend, I found myself taut to the breaking point when I drug myself home tonight. That fragile feeling that one more blow, however small would be the one that shattered me. Combine that with a feeling of isolation caused by an inability to be vulnerable to others and you might comprehend my state of mind.

I only checked the post because there had been hints to be on the look out. And there it was, a small box. Filled with love, strength, hope, and time. Everything I needed disguised as goathair tied in knots. I sort of feel bad that she spent all that time on me, when there are others who need it more. But the fact that they need it More, doesn't negate the fact that I do need it. More than I am ever willing or able to admit.

So while I wanted to write a post that had clever words to tell her how wonderful her gift is, I find that there are no words. Nothing that can say it right. There's no way to say it's perfect - except to say just that...it's perfect.

Now, if you'll pardon me, I'm off to have a little cry with my new "blankie."

You're Invited

Last week I posted about wishing the problems of my friends were solved-for selfish reasons.
And I hurt one of the people reading it, who didn’t understand that I wasn’t bemoaning the trust people put in me by telling me their stories. I was just frustrated by the magnitude of the situation
In case anyone else read it and was hurt (but didn’t tell me), please understand, I’m grateful that we have the type of relationship that lets you tell me ALL of your story-not just the good times, but also a shared carrying of burdens.
At the same time I feel as if what I have to offer is so inadequate, and that feeling of inadequacy strikes at the core of me; touches that buried child who never did anything right or well enough, who was powerless, unable to fix anything.
I am by my nature, a DOer, and it’s so frustrating to be unable to DO anything.

When I was little I used to cling to the idea that if I could just make it through Someday It Will All Be Okay. It became that focus that carried me through so much. That sense that if I could just get through This…someday….
Throughout the challenges of life, that same concept has kicked in. If I would/could just make it through Today, then Someday….It will all be okay.
And while it may not be the best or most sophisticated coping mechanism, it’s stood me in good stead over the decades. It’s also proven itself true often enough that I continue to return to it as a touchstone. I find myself now soothing myself with it again in my daily life.
But…
Tonight it’s Friday Night at Casa de TravelingKnitter. And I have plans. Not to calm my frayed nerves with a concept of the future; but with a night that is Okay Right NOW. With the lighting of the Shabbat Candles I’m declaring a moratorium on the world. I’ve got a Scotch so smooth it’s almost XXX in its pleasures. There’s an Inspector Morse disc on the TV, Twelfth Night in paperback, or a murder mystery on the Ipod. Enchilada fixins are in the fridge. The needles are filled with a cornucopia of projects to pick from, but I think the cardi from handspun Polwarth will be the tactile catnip of the evening.
What about you? What can you do to carve out a moment without baggage? To celebrate Life with no past, no future. To treat yourself gently? Because it’s a party at my place tonight and all my friends are invited.