Hours and hours I sit knitting
Almost compelled to sit, and knit.
I drive far and wide seeking yarns,
Colors and textures, wools and silks and cottons,
Thin yarn, fat yarn and all in between.
I stash the yarn, hoard the yarns
In my grandmother's cedar chest.
I take pride in the finished piece, briefly
Before moving on to the next, starting anew
Casting on with new yarn, a new color, a new pattern.
The finished project matters little compared to a
My need is not to pile up knitted pieces, but
To knit with the deep and secret desire that
I too am being knitted,
With the prayer that if I diligently sit and knit
It will knit me, fashion me, adding colors and textures.
My longing is not to become a finished piece,
Rather I fervently hope that my, our, Knitter
Will not give up on me, as I have often done,
Leaving me half knitted, still on the needles
In a basket gathering dust.
I have never knitted anything that did not contain flaws, mistakes, imperfections. I have yet to knit a perfect piece. Sometimes the flaw is so glaring that to continue on without going back and repairing it would be too disheartening, and so the tedious task of backtracking and reworking becomes the work. Other times the mistake, in context of the entire piece, is minimal and not worth ripping out and starting over...I continue on, leaving the flaw in place, or patched.
Likewise, the Knitter has on occasion taking me apart and started over, but usually She says learn from this mistake and carry on.