The long winter is upon us. The holidays are over. All the Christmas festive decorations have been put away. The windows are now decorated with nature’s handiwork. Frost creeps up the windows and condensation gathers as the humidifier hums.
Winter sure can be a gray period. Easy to fall into a boring routine and just mechanically check the days off the calendar, as we wait for the freedom that summer seems to present. Freedom from winter coats, frosted windows needing scraped, and days filled with warm sunshine and outdoor activities. We look forward to shedding the walls that protect us through the brutal weather of winter.
I find myself rising in the dark, preparing for work in my normal routine, leaving for work as the sun is finally stretching and yawning. I arrive home with barely enough light left in the day to even take a walk, but I probably wouldn’t anyway. The temperatures have been a bit foreboding and my body has been revolting against winter with a lingering virus.
Today, Wednesday, I find myself falling into that gray, but my hands keep reaching out for that little bit of light.
Last night I got out the knitting I had started after Christmas. Self taught with a book that my family got for me for Christmas, I found myself adding stitches with each row, and as many times as I tried to figure out just what I was doing wrong, fifty-two stitches had soon turned into fifty-eight. The activity that I thought would keep me entertained and intrigued through the winter had now turned into a frustration and an aggravation. My spirits waned with each completed row.
Just as the thought to forget knitting altogether and return to creativity that I already know entered my mind, I decided to just start over. I slid all the stitches off the needles and threw them to the side. Reaching in my bag, I pulled out the instructional book, and following the directions, I began to cast on once again. This time I started with only twenty stitches. Following each diagram explicitly, I soon completed five rows of twenty stitches each. It seemed that I had just been holding it wrong with the completed stitches on top of the needle instead of below.
Call it a diversion, call it a distraction. Whatever you call it, I found a celebration in those five rows. And as I prepare for work, my desk there already piled high with documents needing recorded, scanned, filed and data to enter, I am carrying my new knitting in my heart. I look forward to coming home to pick it up once more and watch the transformation, as the soft yarn becomes something completely different.