My first (and surely, ONLY) pair of socks made by my own hand.
Competent knitter I am not, but still I enjoyed the process very much.
I was really hoping to have them done before Mom passed away, but I missed the mark by two weeks. Not that it ever carried the threat of fret; by now we've learned a thing or two about this truth:
All things in the appointed time.
I first wrote about the Master Weaver here,
the One who knits us together in our mother's wombs,
the One who charts our lives and
carries forth every purpose laid out for us
The One of whom it is said: All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.
I still can't fathom it all. And it doesn't matter that I do.
I can simply marvel instead. That does matter!
I post the following picture as proof that at my great age, I can be found practising the liberating skill of laughing at oneself more often. It was a quiet evening in early December around Mom's kitchen table, (the table with the really poor lighting) a decent enough place for six dice, not so for knitting on 4mm slick turbo needles.
After fixing the umpteenth slipped stitch, my little sister ran off to her place (it's attached to moms granny suite).
'Probably pouring herself a good stiff drink' me thought :)
A unique thought to think about a teetotaller but, oh well.
'I hope she pours a stiff one for me too!' me thought again, more sensibly this time.
She soon reappeared and with a great guffaw (and no helpful libation in hand), affixed me with a miner's sort of headlamp to address the lighting issue. She proceeded to play the iphone paparazzi and forwarded the end result. It was a great moment of comic relief - I think we made enough noise to even rouse Mom's curiosity from the bedroom.
We've spent quite a bit of time there again - at Mom's place.
It's so comforting to be at her place, among the things of Mom.
I will write about that soon, but I can't just yet.
