Enamored

Have you ever experienced a visceral, physical craving to knit?

The Pink Thistle on Thanksgiving Day last week was moving to my office, but abandoned en route on the staircase.

You’re minding your own beeswax, doing something else. Some non-knitting, alledgedly productive but utterly mindnumbing thing, such as “work”, “grocery-getting”, or God help you, “housekeeping”.

That’s when it hits. The itch in the fingers to touch the wool. The shimmering vision of the Finished Thing, in the wearing or the giving, or just out in the world being seen.

The sense memories of the Making flood over you - the touch of the string - soft and smooth or firm and crunchy, the sweet smell of the wool and the irresistable gleam of the perfect, sleek needles.

They all sing their Sirens’ Call:

“Heed!” the Knitting shouts. “Abandon the banal and sink into our warm embrace! Here are comfort, and peace, and thoughtful intention.”

“But the chores,” you protest. “They matter not.” Says the Knitting. “Here is contentment. Here is contemplation. Here is your Happy Place!”

I gently steamed it flat in order to measure. 13 ½ inches long, gauge, spot on. And the Sirens continued their song.

So you have to relent. The pull is too beguling; the alternatives too mundane.

A peek at the steek, inside, where the colors change and the Magic happens.

You find the chair, the light, the cup of tea. The cat or dog curls up at your feet - they, too, know you have come back to where you belong. You pick up the knitting, and surrender to the spell.

Too bewitching to ignore…

Whatever you’re knitting, Gentle Readers, I wish you enchantment.