I didn't think I could do it, but I was going to try anyway. I had never knit anything more complicated than a hat and one lousy mitten at that point. I was wrong; I did it, and it wasn't even that hard. Since then, I have made six sweaters; three cardigans, three pullovers. OK, two of them were baby sweaters, but still, that's, on average, one sweater every two months. I've also made socks, gloves, more mittens, a blanket, a lace scarf, baby booties, and many other things I can't remember right now, as it's been a long, busy day, I am tired, and I have maybe had a drink or two. I have a huge stash of yarn, a gigantic vase full of needles, a shelf full of knitting books, and a couple of drawers full of knitting sundries. I keep them in my little pink office that looks out over our street, where I have marked the change of the seasons with the Victoria plum tree in my neighbour's yard, in this whole year I've been learning this craft.
I bought a darning mushroom today, because those socks were hard-won, and my husband has an uncanny ability to wear holes in lovingly hand-knit socks at an astonishing pace. I am not throwing them away. I am not possessive of the things I knit; I give most of them away. But I am protective. I knit with love and care. I am the best person I can be when I am knitting something for somebody I love, and for all my moaning about the inflexibility of cotton and the ache in my shoulders and wrists, I do not regret or resent a moment spent knitting. I have met some really wonderful people through knitting. I have knitted my way through depression and worry and a lot of happiness as well, and it's all been good for me, and good for the people I love.
I think this hobby is going to stick.
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