It’s tempting to begin the year by getting all my stash of yarn out and making wildly unrealistic plans. I usually do just that; I pile it up, let it inspire me and start eighteen projects at once (most are still on the needles at Easter).
This year, I’m not so sure that would be a great idea. My needles are relatively still.
This January I can barely knit, following a stupid spinning incident. No, it deserves capitals and a definite article, at least in my little world: The Stupid Spinning Incident.
(It’s such a small thing in the scheme of things, of course, but I was responsible for it. I can’t blame anyone else; even the Daily Mail couldn’t blame anyone else. It was me. Grr.)
It all started with a spinning wheel. I wasn’t going to spin; I had no time, what with inconvenient things like work. Then my neighbour, a fantastic spinner, died – and I was given her wheel. She had been a good friend and a wonderful craftswoman, and I felt I owed it to her to master the dark art of making fantastic yarn out of fleece from a sheep that liked playing in the gorse.
The weather was good, which helped, and of course I was already hooked on wool…
So I learned, and it was not easy – but then I got it. Boy, did I get it. I was roaring away. I bought roving, I found more fleeces, I sorted, washed and teased them, I carded, I spun, I had a marathon plying session – and I ended up with The Claw instead of a left hand.
I stopped. It settled down.
And then I did it again. (Yes, I know. I’m an eejit.)
But now things are beginning to improve (excuse me while I grab next door’s black cat and run widdershins around the house for luck). I can spin for all of five minutes and I can even manage four lines of plain vanilla knitting an evening. I’m keeping my fingers crossed – carefully crossed – that what the physio described as ‘massive damage’ is finally beginning to mend.
There has been one distinct upside to all this, though. It has made me stop and think about why knitting, and now spinning, is so important to me…