Thoughts About Knitting, Life, and Maria

I'm often in awe of the strength of the knitting/fiber arts community. It's a world all of its own, with deep roots and valued traditions, and yet it's constantly evolving, growing, and adapting with fresh approaches and creative ideas.
I feel so lucky to be a part of something so time-honored and full of history. Anyone who knows me knows I love history, culture, and the folk arts, and so can understand how much I embrace the craft of knitting. But the artist in me appreciates the possibility of innovation and design.

I'm discovered that I'm a process knitter. I enjoy the act of knitting, the way it feels in my hands, the tactical enjoyment of the yarn and the needles interacting. I've been that way with drawing and painting as well. Pages of artwork have been tossed after spending hours of drawing because I simply love the act of making lines on paper. The flow of a curved line shaping the precise contours of a face. Blending to produce that exact shade of purplish grey. I often don't finish projects because some new technique grabs my attention and I can't wait to try it. That's how it is with knitting. I see patterns and yarns and I want to knit them because I want to make those stitches or shape that piece. I'm attracted to designs that look soft or have interesting texture. That does not mean that there are not projects that I make or want to make that are purely functional or necessary. But the soul and drive of my knitting is experiential. I want to experience knitting for knitting's sake.

I think that's why I'm interesting in dyeing and spinning as well. I have yet to try spinning, but it's on my list. I love the idea of guiding the fibers into delicate strands, or of creating the colors of my dreams. I am inspired by the possibility of making something from scratch, of taking raw wool through all the steps on spinning, dyeing and knitting into something I can wear with pride. Just like people used to do. It seems whole and natural. In an ideal world, I'd have a big old house with land and sheep and all the time in the world to spin and knit all day. With gardens of flowers in the spring in my own hand-made pots, soups with home-grown veggies in the fall, chopping wood for fires in winter with afghans and quilts and cats asleep on sills and a pie on the shelf.
Are these new desires? No, these are the wishes I've had since childhood, since experiencing the world of my dear Aunt Maria in her cabin in Redwoods. Always have I wanted these things. Knitting is an extension of my being, of my heart and deepest self where all of my interests come together. To me, they are all part of the same thing.

Take all of my interests as a whole: Native American culture and history, Irish history, arts and crafts of all types, traditional and folk music from a variety of cultures, fantasy and medieval history, writing, music... my life in Santa Cruz and my spiritual beliefs, my adoration and love for my aunt, teaching. What do they all have in common? The need to connect with the land and with people in a whole and natural way.

Sometimes I think the reason I always feel so empty and lost, as though something is missing, is because I have not come full circle to a place where I'm immersed in all my interests and desires and where I'm living the life I intended to live. When I discover new ideas and activities, it does not feel like I'm discovering something new, but rather I'm finding another piece of myself that I did not know was there, or had forgotten about. It's another part of the whole.

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It's no mistake that my aunt was my aunt, and was in my life. Even as a little girl, I knew she was something special, and who made my life special just by knowing her. She could never have been my mother. I might have rejected her teachings as daughters often do. But as her niece, as the closest thing to her own daughter, which she never had, I was open to everything. I still feel like she left this world too soon. I will always feel that way. Sometimes it seems, now that she is gone, that I need her more than ever. It's almost six months since the cancer took her, and still my memories of her are sharp and cut through me with a breath, whether it's a song I hear, the snow that falls, or her voice in my head. Whenever I knit, I remember that afternoon by the window and the sun slanting through, the flute music in the background, and both of us, knitting in silence. No words, but volumes of love and understanding. And for that moment I can't do anything else but let that memory sink into me, wrap my mind around it, and lock it in that vault where all such things are kept.

She will never see me marry. She will never see my children. They will not know her. That breaks my heart. But if I could be to them or to someone, what she was to me, that shall be my life fulfilled.