June 18, 2013

A cheery fire blazing, folk-dancer flames leaping, receding and pausing mid-stride, synchronous and earthy… tendrils of frost that had crept up my toes and over my body being fought back bravely, hacked away by the swift daggers of heat enveloping me… I turn my back to the fire, slow-roasting in its warmth and catch sight of my grandmother, her face suffused with a golden glow, slowly rocking herself, humming a lilting tune… I watch her fingers, mesmerized – the needles darting quickly in and out, the lovely jewel-toned merino-silk yarn wrapped around her pinky finger being transformed before my very eyes into an exquisite tonal amethyst shawl, her swift industry showing in the rapid flicks of her index finger to bring the yarn through.
Each time I pick up my knitting needles, nostalgia washes over me and I feel again that same warmth and glow, and a powerful visceral connection with that tradition of industry and aesthetic, and knitting turns into my meditation…


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