Knit Purl

I learned to knit at my Gramma's knee.
She was always patient. Never yelled. Ever. Just gentle instruction.
And she smelled good.
Warm. Kind. Like yarn, and kittens and coffee and fresh earth and love.
She was a leftie, but such a good teacher and good knitter she could turn the whole thing around to show me the right handed side of things.
My first project was slippers. I was 5. She was 53, petite and beautiful with chestnut brown hair and golden brown eyes that matched. Her hands were delicate but her nails were long and strong.
Knit.
Purl.
Knit.
Purl.
It was pretty easy.
She was proud of me. Told me I was a natural. Let me choose my own yarn.


Unraveled. That's what happens when you go to fast, to far, use the wrong stitch, forget the pattern, mis-read, mis-judge, get knocked off track, distracted, the kittens or the kids get into your project.
Pull yarn, re-wind.
Like life sometimes.
What was I crafting? What was it for? The purpose, intent seem fuzzy. Not sure I like this yarn, color, feel, weight, style, pattern.
Choose again.
Or simply choose. To keep going.
Knit.
Purl.
Knit.
Purl.

Unraveled and distracted. Like working intarsia while chatting on the phone.
Unravel. Re-wind. Back-up. Read the pattern.
Start here.
Knit.
Purl.
Knit.
Purl.
Simple purpose. Simple pattern.

Feeling like a 5 year old some days.
Having missed and overworked stitches yanked out and feeling torn asunder.
Feeling unraveled.
Wishing Gram were here and her love for me, simple but all that mattered, would re-work the pattern.
I could watch.
She would make it right and I could pick it up again, back as good as new.
And I would know I'm good at it, a natural.
And I could see her smiling at me, over her glasses, and know that she was proud of me.
Instead of slogging along. Feeling like mis-matched color and thread weight and wrong sized needles all thrown together in a bag with no pattern and the need for a finished project.
Sigh.
5 was good. Gram's knee was a great place to hang out.
The unravleing was simple then.