I’ve been trying hard to come up with something to say this week.
Today, I’ve felt intensely frenetic. It’s been difficult to sit still. I’m trying to finish reading for my book club meeting tomorrow, but I instead found myself knitting while listening to a different audiobook because just reading wasn’t enough stimulation.
Knitting has become my favorite way to show people how much I love them. I knit myself a sweater, then a matching one for Z; we wore them together on Thanksgiving, while putting up our Christmas tree.
I made a baby blanket for my older sister’s first child. I’ve made several scarves for friends. I stitch a row of a temperature blanket every morning. I am currently knitting a sweater for Z’s younger sibling to celebrate their acceptance into college and a scarf for Z (also one that will match with something I made myself). L has asked me to teach her how to knit, and I can’t wait to share this art I love with her.
Knitting is not something that comes easily to me. I’m left-handed, and I find it difficult to hold the yarn in a way even remotely reminiscent of “correct.” I can feel the strain in my shoulders and in the knuckles of my right hand. Sometimes, I make a mug of tea not for something warm to drink but for something warm to hold—a way to soothe my sore hands.
Pain. Pleasure. Creation. Needles. This is, of course, why Z and I so frequently compare knitting to my testosterone injections.
Ah, but I’m getting off track (if there is a track to be on). I’m writing about crafting, working with my hands, especially in times when I am not feeling up to the task of writing.
I love to write, but I find it difficult to sit in front of a laptop in the evenings after a full day sitting at a computer for work. I’ve bought myself a new notebook to work on my first novel, and I hope that will help.
Some days, though, writing feels like an impossible task. In those moments, I turn to knitting. It brings me joy to feel the scratch of yarn in my palms just as much as to know I am making something for someone I love—making something that they will love, at least because they love me. How beautiful that is!
Lately, my mind has turned from knitting to quilting. Z and I want to make a quilt with the help of our loved ones, asking them to sew a block of their own or to send us some fabric to use in the project. We want to commemorate our relationship with a piece of art we can wrap around ourselves to keep warm in the northeast winters, a piece of art made with the love of the people around us.
I am excited by the project, which is part of my frenetic mood today. Always, I have been an impatient person. I would like to start working now, please!
But I am also feeling strange today because my depression is settling into one of its deep grooves, gliding down, down toward some dark place within myself. I am struggling to find the energy to do anything, and I’m afraid that when we start working on our quilt, I will quickly lose energy and focus.
What keeps me going, though—among other things—is knowing that the quilt will hold my love for Z and their love for me in every stitch, every scrap of fabric. It doesn’t matter that I’m a quilting novice, attempting to shake things up now that I’m too settled in knitting. It will be beautiful, even if it is also a little bit ugly.
And it will be ours.