There is a serenity that comes with knitting socks. It doesn’t come with knitting large projects, nor with crocheting items large or small. It also, strangely enough, often doesn’t come with knitting socks, either.
The thing about socks is that they’re basically foot-shaped. As a foot is not a simple piece of architecture, neither can the sock intended for it be. And so, like most peaces in this life, the serenity of sock is not always easily come by.
As Stephanie Pearl-McPhee observes, “In the nineteenth century, knitting was prescribed to women as a cure for nervousness and hysteria. Many new knitters find this sort of hard to believe because, until you get good at it, knitting seems to cause those ailments.”
What do all these people have in common? They all died at a younger age than I am now, all having left their mark upon the world (whether they knew it or not).
Even if I live to be a hundred (unlikely), I am still nearly a third of the way through my life. And should I happen to die tomorrow (possibly more likely than the die-at-100 scenario, albeit still fairly unlikely), I do not think I will pop off content with how I have spent my time on this wandering orb.