Imagine yourself walking in the shoes of the great ones if only for a moment. Close your eyes to picture yourself among the poets, painters, and authors of not so long ago. Bask in their brilliance to become inspired for all the New Year through.”
For all readers and writers, I’ve hit a wall. I’m stuck at a certain point within the book I’m knitting. I keep coming back to that word (knitting) because it reminds me of my dear mother. She was a fabulous knitter, an artist really who rarely used a pattern. Not the kind who used knitting machines or crochet needles, but a woman who relied totally on her slender hands and thin fingers to click and guide different colors of yarn from one needle to the next. I used to watch her closely. Baskets overflowed with nubby balls of yarn. Their shapes, colors, and textures piled on top of each other in spare rooms no longer used around the house.
Drawers of needles in different sizes, long and short, fat or thin seemed to be dipped in brightly colored printer’s ink. They rested until my mother’s fingers called them to make magic. After many days and long hours into the night, “Poof,” it was like she pulled a rabbit out of a hat of shiny black! I used to watch my mother click needles from her designated chair of burgundy velvet. It fit her just so, rounded, warm and safe. A place she could work beneath the perfect shade of tinted rose that shined above the softness of her head. Assorted skeins of textured yarn sat in her lap. Wool, cotton or colored silk and even dyed leather ribbon. She was the ‘miracle’ worker of threads. A tiny woman who knitted white feathers on a string, turning them into one-of-a-kind sweaters for high-end boutiques to sell. Oh, what a gift she had!
Knitting was my mother’s passion, as writing is my own. I know at times she was stuck with her own projects too. If she were here, could I go to her? Would she look at my work? Would she understand? Things are different now. I’ve come to know her and I believe she knows me. God is with us and has provided me answers that were never there before. I believe she would be proud of me. She’d smile at my writing and the special way I play with words. When I’m stuck knitting in my book, I think she’d offer me one of her warm and slender hands. She’d reach out, helping me to figure it out.
Knit one, pearl two. Perhaps I’ll have to unravel a few pages in order to get it right? What would my dear mother have to say?