Lavande Socks


A couple of weeks ago I came down with this overwhelming desire to knit. My fingers were positively itching and I would sit there and stretch them, longing for the feel of wood in my hands and wool on my fingers. Perhaps it was some strange strain of withdrawal brought on by the fact that I hadn't knit since Christmas, or maybe it was a combination of this and a sense of knowing of that with all of the changes that were going to be coming into my life, the movement of the needles and the small loops would somehow provide the continuity I needed to settle down. For at it's core, knitting for me is always about this- the repetition of a few acts, sometimes in various ways, to create beautiful things; though the steps may be combined or repeated in assorted ways to achieve different effects and results, the essential steps never really waver- and there's something solid and comforting in this. Add to this the tradition of the craft, and well, there's just something about this art that has the capacity to carry you through just about anything in my opinion; it's a sort of weaving of past and present, of stability and instability, of change and growth. It's pretty much as comforting as a pair of hand-knit wool socks on a winter's night.

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