Of course 2017 began with the empowering Pussy Hat Project and I’ll get to that sometime but first I want to talk about my knitting in general. As of 12/25/17 I knit over 22,000 yards of yarn! That’s like 12 miles, I think. I was dedicated to the cause of reducing my stash and that meant creative pairings of yarns to complete projects I was truly interested in. In some cases I went overboard in yarn groupings just to hit the high marks of yarn mileage; I mean, holding 6 strands of lace to worsted weights-who thinks that won’t weigh a ton? And I knit a coat with it!! To be fair, not all of my knitted yardage came out of my storage. My sister graciously donated skeins and cones that had lingered on her shelves for many decades and through many moves. I still consider it my de-stashing, though, because our stashes have intermingled over the years and some of her yarn has been fostered out to me and some of my original purchases were sent to find a new home on her looms, so it’s hard to draw a hard and fast line with mohair to say this one counts and this one doesn’t. Speaking of mohair: 2017 was definitely my year to knit with fuzzy, shed-y things. I have left tufts and fiber-kisses everywhere since August. I knit with so much angora it is ridiculous. I live in Central California! None of this was new purchase, I just seemed to be drawn to the foozily stuff in my stash and my sister’s during 2017. So what about the soft and haloed, but somewhat irritating, fuzzy trend I was in this year? What deeper meanings does it hold, if any? Yes, I was trying to reduce by diving deep, recycle by re-knitting some things that didn’t make me happy, but why this linty trend? Did I feel the need to leave my mark? Everywhere? Even in my husband’s eyelashes? (sorry!) Was this a trail of angelic feathers? Was it an attempt to obfuscate current circumstances by burying it in a downy mask? A need to be held and petted? I don’t have an answer, only a need to buy more refills for my lint roller.
And then there was the knitwear down-sizing. I have been thinking for a couple of years now that I have too much inventory (actual finished-object inventory not the rapturous-stash-of-things-to-become inventory). Too many shawls and cowls and sweaters and less and less room to store them. And there was always the next mkal to inspire me and an almost slavish dedication to using up stash. But honestly, I only have one pair of shoulders and one neck and too much of my knitwear was never seeing the light of day. You see by living in an irrigated desert there are a wee few months out of the year when most of my warmth-wear can be used. And in my newly retired life, I don’t go out in public on a daily basis so the knitwear I did wear doesn’t get much of a rotation. The billow-y piles of hand-knitted memories were becoming a lead weight of –what- guilt? Maybe not as severe as guilt but a consciousness of constraint; in holding tight to these items and the memories of buying the yarn and creating the stitches that composed each piece, I was strangling the very freedom I sought in the making of these objects.
There was a lot of hovering between the decision and the doing, and a lot of self-criticism; would these things of my hands be cherished or criticized? I debated who and how to give them away. I knew I didn’t want to gift them in that traditional sense of ‘this is for you’ and ‘this one’s for you.’ I wanted people to have a choice and to choose a piece they wanted (or would rather leave behind). The first opportunity I had for group gifting came in mid-November when I hosted a fiber crafting group. I hesitated though. I knew I needed to, and wanted to, down-size. I had even begun to mentally cull my wardrobe for the obvious rarely-worn gems. But I couldn’t do it yet. I think part of this came down to “knit-worthiness.” Much has been said about this among those of us who hold the power of the pointy sticks but in this case, I’m going to have to explain that the knit-worthiness was as much a recognition and a coming to grips with my self-worth as a creator as it was the worthiness of the recipient to honor the work and fiber. I say that because throughout this process I found myself see-sawing with anxiety over whether or not someone would find this shawl/cowl/scarf attractive. I loved these pieces. I had connections to the colors and patterns and the stories they told. Like children, some had their own idiosyncrasies that I feared wouldn’t be understood. I knew with my head that they were fine pieces of work and would stand up to the discerning eye of master knitters but waves of insecurity ebbed and flowed from my heart. In the end this played out when I could not bring myself to offer those remaining few items that I am so unsure of- the unusual color or yarn choices. These are the ones that I continue to hide from the light of day in order to protect that vulnerable spot of my creativity. So knit-worthy was really knitter-worthy.
Although I did not offer pieces initially to that group of fellow fiber-ists, the commitment to purge the collection of hand-knits began to solidify to the point that I was ready when my next social invitation arrived in late November. Without too much rumination, I grabbed a big tote and began stuffing in scarves, cowls and shawls. Things I loved and wore sometimes, things I liked but hardly wore, and a few just things. It’s interesting that the group I chose to offer items to first is a group of my oldest friends- my womb sisters. The high degree of knit-worthiness with this group definitely grew out of our long-term intimacy, much more than any fiber love on their parts. With them, I felt knitter-worthy, somewhat safe in what I offered as gifts, although there remains those mutts in the drawers that are still too vulnerable. I hauled my big Santa bag of knit-stuffs and displayed them around the room before people arrived. My host said there would be a few other friends, friends outside the inner-circle, who would be joining us and, I’ll admit, I had a brief although palpable clutch in the stomach; were these other, more informal friends, knit-worthy? Or, more truthfully did I feel my knits worthy of their scrutiny? It was a momentary struggle. I had stepped onto the ledge and it was time to let go. I completed the display and greeted folks as they arrived with an offer of take what you want for yourself or someone else. Or leave it. No pressure. I was beginning to detach from the physical comfort of these objects while also distancing myself from the symbolism they held of the fear of judgement on my creativity.
Shawls and scarves were oohed & aahed over: cuddled, fondled, stroked and squeezed. Fiber ecstasy. We’ve all been there. It amused me to see who chose which piece(s) and, you know what? Some of that knitwear looked more fantastic on the new owner than it had on me! This exchange encouraged me to offer additional knitwear later, to other friends, and by the end of the year I had given away over 25 pieces. Will they be honored and cherished? I don’t know. What is important is that they were in that moment I gave them away and the knitter became worthy.
