I’ve taken to listening to audiobooks on my way to and from work. I used to ride in silence; I thought it helped to clear my head. In reality, the silence put me more on edge. I spent the entire time white-knuckling the steering wheel and obsessing over the day’s mishaps.
The audiobooks were a welcome distraction during my 30-minute commute. They almost worked too well. For a while, when I got to the thick of a plot and I just had to know what happened next, I ate lunch at my desk.
My latest obsessions, The Friday Night Knitting Club and Knit Two, had me engrossed for two weeks. The books were about a group of women who form an unlikely bond through the craft. It’s also about love, forgiveness, and taking a chance.
What struck me most, though, was that these women KNITTED.
I know, weird, right? With all of the drama and plot twists, who cares about knitting?
The knitting was reminding me of something I had forgotten all about. Crocheting. My great-aunt taught me when I was four years old. I sat under her craft table twisting scraps of yarn around a fat green hook until they turned into potholders and scarves. As I got older, I crocheted less and less. I would return to it time to time, usually when someone was having a baby.
The last baby I crocheted for was my own. That was 6 years ago.
I found a half skein of blue yarn in the basement. The green hook from my childhood is long gone. I lost it in an airplane seat while making a blanket for a friend’s newborn. The peach replacement doesn’t feel quite the same.
But the yarn glides between my fingers as it always does. My hands work as if they have a mind of their own. It doesn’t take long before I have a square of blue.
I’m not sure what it’s going to be yet, but it was great to reconnect with an old friend.
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