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.”
I think it was the hats that finally clued me in.
I own thirteen hats, and as I walked to the yarn shop to obtain materials for the fourteenth hat, I brooded. More than that, I mused, I prayed, I meditated. On such subjects as simplicity, the significance of hats, and the wisdom or unwisdom of buying yarn for another hat.
And this is what I realized: the reason I have so many hats – the reason why I have trouble getting rid of any of these hats – is that they represent the people I could be.
Your average fruit fly will die of natural causes after only a month or two of life. Is this soon enough? Absolutely not!
They’re pesky little things, flitting around by your fruit bowl – or your kitchen windowsill of Bramleys, in my case – and while I can’t actually see what they’re doing, I’m sure it can’t be good.
Not being fond of spraying my food with insecticidal chemicals, I determined to take a less toxickly stinky method to wreak my devastation. (I may be a writer by profession, but I moonlight as the Death of Small Parasitic Insects.)