frightened of the cost and wasted time that I had trouble even imagining a relationship that could end up being this deep—rich love that goes so far past a simple infatuation.
None of this is to say that what we have was easy to get. Heaven knows we’ve had our difficulties getting here. I know that you were as frightened as I was a few months ago, when it seemed like everything was coming undone. Loving you has taught me that sometimes you have to take calculated risks, to gauge what is possible. To extend trust to the process that has brought this into being. When I first saw you, I could only guessat what it could all become; you seemed so strong and sturdy, I wouldn’t have ever guessed that you had such a soft side.
I may be a hopeless romantic, but I am old enough not to be naive. I know how seldom this perfect a love comes into anyone’s life and how lucky I am that it worked out for us. I know, too, that time will pass, and we may someday be parted. Nothing can last forever, and that only makes you more of a treasure to me. You have taught me not to give up. You have taught me to open myself up to the wonder of a relationship that makes me feel so complete and safe when you wrap yourself around me.
Until I met you and learned that I could learn to do this, realized that I wasn’t going to be left out of something I saw other people finding, there was an empty place I didn’t know I had. Until I met you, I was a little cold.
You are really the best sweater I’ve ever had.
Love,
Stephanie
P.S.: Don’t take the new pullover on the needles too personally. I have enough room in my heart for two.
Yarn Over
Stories of Challenging People, Projects, and Knitters
Denny
My friend Denny is knitting. I love, with a helpless and unreasonable passion, the way she knits. I just love it. The way Denny knits breaks all the rules about knitting I’ve ever been told or made up for myself. Denny holds her hands, palms down, with her fingers curled loosely under, like for sleep. The needles rest in the curls of her fingers, so relaxed that I am constantly surprised that she doesn’t drop them. The yarn she is using, a softly spun alpaca, snakes up from the handwoven basket by her feet and snakes forward along the line of the right needle toward its tip, passing under her palm and through the curve of her fingers. When most people knit, they tension the yarn somehow; we’re all told that it’s necessary to come up with a system for this, or our work will be uneven or loose. You need to press it between two fingers or wrap it around one of them or do something, but Denny didn’t get the memo, and she doesn’t do anything at all to control the yarn. It just lies there, unboundand uncontained, under her palms. Her hands rest in her lap, not tense or tight, and until she makes a stitch, it looks like the least efficient or quick way to go about things.
I’ve heard knitting experts say hundreds of times that the least efficient way to knit is like this. Loose, unfettered, the yarn out of control in between stitches. These teachers would have to take it all back if they met Denny. When she makes a stitch, her left index finger moves the next in line to the tip with a movement so petite and ornamental that it seems like it doesn’t matter, then her right hand guides the needle in, and whirl, her right hand lets go, and scribes a graceful circle around the needle tip, taking the yarn that had been resting under it for a ride in the curl of her fingers and snaps back to its original position as if nothing had ever happened. It reminds me of watching a ballet dancer spin in place. Her body whirls around, and her head snaps back to center with each turn to help her keep her balance. Whirl, snap. Whirl, snap. It shouldn’t work, but it does, and that’s just like Denny herself. It’s exactly what I like about her: that the accumulation of her traits shouldn’t work, but it does, and it’s that aspect of her (which is
None of this is to say that what we have was easy to get. Heaven knows we’ve had our difficulties getting here. I know that you were as frightened as I was a few months ago, when it seemed like everything was coming undone. Loving you has taught me that sometimes you have to take calculated risks, to gauge what is possible. To extend trust to the process that has brought this into being. When I first saw you, I could only guessat what it could all become; you seemed so strong and sturdy, I wouldn’t have ever guessed that you had such a soft side.
I may be a hopeless romantic, but I am old enough not to be naive. I know how seldom this perfect a love comes into anyone’s life and how lucky I am that it worked out for us. I know, too, that time will pass, and we may someday be parted. Nothing can last forever, and that only makes you more of a treasure to me. You have taught me not to give up. You have taught me to open myself up to the wonder of a relationship that makes me feel so complete and safe when you wrap yourself around me.
Until I met you and learned that I could learn to do this, realized that I wasn’t going to be left out of something I saw other people finding, there was an empty place I didn’t know I had. Until I met you, I was a little cold.
You are really the best sweater I’ve ever had.
Love,
Stephanie
P.S.: Don’t take the new pullover on the needles too personally. I have enough room in my heart for two.
Yarn Over
Stories of Challenging People, Projects, and Knitters
Denny
My friend Denny is knitting. I love, with a helpless and unreasonable passion, the way she knits. I just love it. The way Denny knits breaks all the rules about knitting I’ve ever been told or made up for myself. Denny holds her hands, palms down, with her fingers curled loosely under, like for sleep. The needles rest in the curls of her fingers, so relaxed that I am constantly surprised that she doesn’t drop them. The yarn she is using, a softly spun alpaca, snakes up from the handwoven basket by her feet and snakes forward along the line of the right needle toward its tip, passing under her palm and through the curve of her fingers. When most people knit, they tension the yarn somehow; we’re all told that it’s necessary to come up with a system for this, or our work will be uneven or loose. You need to press it between two fingers or wrap it around one of them or do something, but Denny didn’t get the memo, and she doesn’t do anything at all to control the yarn. It just lies there, unboundand uncontained, under her palms. Her hands rest in her lap, not tense or tight, and until she makes a stitch, it looks like the least efficient or quick way to go about things.
I’ve heard knitting experts say hundreds of times that the least efficient way to knit is like this. Loose, unfettered, the yarn out of control in between stitches. These teachers would have to take it all back if they met Denny. When she makes a stitch, her left index finger moves the next in line to the tip with a movement so petite and ornamental that it seems like it doesn’t matter, then her right hand guides the needle in, and whirl, her right hand lets go, and scribes a graceful circle around the needle tip, taking the yarn that had been resting under it for a ride in the curl of her fingers and snaps back to its original position as if nothing had ever happened. It reminds me of watching a ballet dancer spin in place. Her body whirls around, and her head snaps back to center with each turn to help her keep her balance. Whirl, snap. Whirl, snap. It shouldn’t work, but it does, and that’s just like Denny herself. It’s exactly what I like about her: that the accumulation of her traits shouldn’t work, but it does, and it’s that aspect of her (which is
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