I knit and therefor I am

Once Upon a Time there was a little girl who lived with her parents in a small cottage at the edge of a tiny village by the woods.

She was a good girl who loved to help her Mother wind wool for her knitting and was so proud that she could be useful.
The sound of the knitting needles clacking together was like music to the girl as she went about her day, reading stories or cutting paper dolls or planting flower seeds in the window boxes.
She would always remember that sound as one of happiness, even years later when she was passing through those sullen, teenage years, she would almost smile, as her Mother pulled out her basket of yarn and began another sweater or scarf. Why in the world would anyone want another scarf she thought to herself?
She had at least 20 that she could remember right off the top of her head- all in serviceable shades of the beige or brown, in fact!
 If I were to knit, it would be something different, she said to herself as she waved goodbye to her Mother and hopped on her bike to ride over to the library for a new book.
As she rode, she imagined trees covered with knitted patchwork- in her imaginary world everything could be made from yarn!

('Garden Home' 2007 at Wollongong University  Crochet Installation by Heidi Threlfo photograph by Arcadia Lyons)

Imagine knitted cars and food- Why couldn't everything be knitted or crocheted? Imagine how soft and warm everything would be. Especially if she used yarns spun with angora or cashmere. Just as she was about to round the corner where the library was she noticed a yarn shop that she had never seen before.
 She parked her bike and locked it up as she looked up at the sign above the door. Picasso's Moon Yarn Emporium it said.
 There was a funny looking round face carved into the wood and the more she looked at it the more she realized that it was a moon, with a Picasso type face. Clever, she thought as she opened the door with a jingle of bells and instantly caught the scent of lavender and bergamot and saw yarn hanging from the ceiling in every color she could imagine.
This would be the place to find any yarn she dreamed of to make knitted mushrooms and flowers.

She looked around a moment more before a beautiful woman with short gray hair and kind amber eyes came from behind a row of bookcases to ask if she was looking for something special.
The girl said "yes- I want to learn to knit" and knowing it would be rude to stare but unable to tear her eyes away, she took in everything about this magical woman's appearance.
From the knitted and felted boots on her feet (which could only have been made by someone who had read every Dr Seuss book imaginable) with stripes of bright colors and fuzzy yarns sticking out in a crazy random way, to her apron which was covered in a patchwork of photographs printed on fabric and trimmed with raw edge applique to her scarf of ruffles and finally her bracelets which bangled together with a tinkle,  like fairies laughing in the rosebushes. You've come to the right place the woman said as she led the girl to a wooden display filled with balls of yarn.
The girl grabbed a color and sat down in one of the soft looking chairs and explained how her Mother always made practical things like sweaters and gloves and scarves and she wanted to knit something different.
Something more complex and fun.
Something with imagination! She wanted to be able to knit anything she saw- because she felt this knitting in her soul- perhaps it was encoded in her DNA? Well, we've all felt like that a time or two, now haven't we? I know I have, the woman said as she held out a pitcher filled with needles- "Pick your poison" she said and the girl drew out two knitting sticks that were made from
 layers of different colored wood.
The woman sat beside the girl and said "do what I do" and the fear the girl had felt over being taught to knit began to melt away.
Her needles began to follow the rhythm of the woman's,  just like birds singing in chorus just outside the shop window.
 It was nothing like she had imagined- it was soothing and satisfying to feel the yarn being transformed into something like fabric- only thicker and squishy and warm. The girl began to describe the trees she saw in her mind's eye that were knitted and patterned with color and texture and how soft they would be to climb.
The woman smiled and said
"you can do that-
you can knit anything you can dream of".
The girl smiled in return and said "thank you".

 The shop soon filled with women from all over the village and even far away towns and the melody of the needles knitting and the hum of voices speaking of family and adventures soothed the girl and made her feel quite at home.
 She wondered if her Mother knew about this wonderful place full of color and texture with friendly, laughing women who shared a sisterhood of stitches.
 Soon the girl had learned enough to be able to knit something that looked like something. What do you see?
She asked as she held out the eyeballs and the ladies all clapped and giggled to themselves.
 How marvelous!
How comically obscenely unusual and bazaar!
The gray haired woman just smiled and said, "I knit, therefor I am, and so now are you". The girl left the shop that day with a happy heart and after checking out some more books from the library she knitted everything she could possible cover with cables and checks and textures and tweeds.
She was a knitting fool.
She was impossible to stop and everyone soon grew used to seeing trees in cozies and dogs wearing hats. She even knitted a few hats for the children at the Orphanage because it made them smile.
Mostly though, she made knitted tarts and pies and things that no one ever expected and she would leave them on window sills to be found by tired, bored housewives who had all but scrubbed the creativity from their spotless imaginations. The girl could feel the flowers in her soul begin to blossom and she lived happily knitted ever after.

 don't drop your stitches,
calamity kim

the photographs in this post were borrowed from Flickr and credit is given to each photo when you rest your curser on each one.