So, I have officially entered the realm of spinning. Yes, thank you to my enabler friends BellaBluMama and PoMoGolightly . You have indeed created a convert. Last year when I met BellaBluMama, one of the first things she said to me in person after “hi my name is___” and “nice to meet you” while she wrangled two 18 months olds in a local park was, “Do you spin?” This was rapidly followed up with “Are you going to Rhinebeck?” Both of these received resounding responses of “No”. The sad look of disappointment on her face lasted all of 10 seconds as we scrambled off after babies on slides.

Last month, I bought my first wheel. Delia is her name. It’s sturdy, a bit feminine, and “Lia” isn’t a bad nickname. Or even Lee. I was trying to give myself some alliterative goodness but couldn’t find an “s” name I liked that much. I know, naming inanimate objects only moves me further into the world of crazy. However, let’s be honest - I’m already there and this is an intimate relationship I’ve entered into. Delia is single treadle Lendrum who has already been much loved and will continue her role as mentor to the newly inducted.

Having informed both BellaBluMama and PoMoGolightly of my foray into their world of spinning, both gifted me some lovely lovely fiber to practice with. PoMoGolightly, indeed, has given me some pointers. With that in mind, I reveal:

My. First. Plied. Yarn.

Sure, it’s lumpy. Sure, it’s not evenly spun or even evenly plied. I don’t care. It’s my very first baby. It has been washed and is currently drying on hangers in my basement. I wept little tears of pride and joy washing it out.

Today, with all of the gorgeous sunshine that we had, I took some of the lushishly yummy red and black fiber that BellaBluMama gave me as a welcoming gift and started working on this:

The very beginning of it is thick. Parts of it are bumpy. However, I think I’m hitting a rhythm with it. I love the way it looks. I love the way it spins up. It’s nice and sticky, making it easy to hide my mistakes. So, thank you Mama. You rock.

Finally, Max would like to say “hello” since whenever there’s a camera around he has to pose:

Yes, I spin. Maybe I’ll even go to Rhinebeck this year too.

Anniversaries can mean many things. Life, death, beginnings, endings. Mostly, they are times for reflection. Reflections are nothing more than inverted images of thoughts. In Plato’s Allegory of the Cave he relates how the prisoners caged in the dark know not the truth because they live in the darkness of the cave. The allegory relates shadows, reflections and objects as the path to truth.

Chained in darkness, fear and hope interchangeably look the same in their shadow forms. The shapes are unclear. They may not be what we think they are. Hope can manifest as fear. Fear of the unknown. Sure, the outcomes we hope for come with change. We look forward to change many times yet approach it with trepidation. Chained to the walls of the cave, we cannot tell the difference between what we see as hope and what we see as fear. Our hopes look like fears to us because we cannot see them for what they are. A move, a baby, a job change, a marriage, a divorce. They all present positives and negatives. We know that they will be for the best in the end. We know that they should represent hope. However, the fear of the unknown, when we sit in darkness, seems to overwhelm the hope. The shapes we see we think are fear. We interpret them as such because we can only view the outlines. All we see is the negative projection against the flickering light.

As we step closer to the light, however, we can see the reflections. We see the inverted images of the objects. At this point, we can see our hopes are really our fears and vice versa. We can see the images, even if we cannot hold onto what we are seeing. No longer are the objects viewed as a negative projection on the wall or floor. We have the knowledge to see the images for what they are. We recognize the fear or hope. We begin to understand where one ends and the other begins. The outlines are given detail. Where we used to recognize only fear, we suddenly can see the hope. Where we thought all hope was lost, we can find it again regained. We live in a world where although we can see these differences, we cannot yet know them. We cannot yet fully grasp what they are. We cannot yet accept them. Recognition, however, is the beginning of the journey to acceptance. We begin to identify from where the fear originates. These identifications are the first step to overcoming the fears. Change is inevitable. Stasis, too, is inevitable in some respects. We can attempt change or have it forced upon us. Recognizing the fine lines between the hopes and fears these changes bring upon us is the first step to truly knowing ourselves. We can remain in stasis or have stasis forced upon us. Recognizing why we fear or hope for stasis also gives us insight into the decisions we make and the reasons for our feelings. We have entered awareness but have not moved on to being able to act.

Only when we release ourselves from the cave and run toward the light can we truly act nobly. In the light, we can grasp the objects, hold them, know them, and release them. We no longer stare at them or see them in a manner given to us by others. We suddenly have a true understanding of them. We can know our fears or know our hopes. We can hold on to them or let them go. We can finally not just see the details but feel the textures. The objects are no longer intangible. They are real. The fears we have held can be quantified. They can be overcome in this manner. The hopes can be harnessed. We can grasp them, cling to them, feel them, and empower ourselves with them. Only when we have been able to see them for what they are can we actually distinguish them from one another. They are no longer blended together. They are separate entities, each with their own consequences in our lives. Once in the light, we can finally separate them into their own categories. No longer are these hopes and fears two dimensional images being projected upon or in front of us. They are three dimensional objects that we can know for ourselves.

Perhaps we are never able to leave the cave forever. Perhaps we may trapped in some home base within the cave. However, hopefully in another year, the anniversary being celebrated will be one of hope, not fear. Perhaps it will be a year in which the cave will become a distant memory. If not, the least for which I can hope is to know that the images are no longer shadow or reflections but objects within my reach. This year marks the anniversary of the removal of the chains. Emergence from the cave will be the anniversary next year.

Spring has sprung. Much has happened in the last few weeks meriting some support from the realms of blogland.

First, and most important, is that a member of the Bad Knit Girls group on Ravelry has suffered a tragedy. Lori’s husband was in a severe accident, and he will not be returning to her. She has some other difficulties in her life making this all the more tragic. Several groups on Ravelry are working together to raise some money to help Lori out. The wonderfully internet and technologically savvy Madam Knit Girl has set up a location for e-donations through paypal on Bad Kit Girls . Under the banner on the homepage, you’ll see a button on the far right that says “Lori’s Donation Fund”. Please check it out. If you can give, please do. She will more than appreciate it.

Squares from the afghan Bad Knit Girls are making and sending:

Now on to the self-serving portion of our posting. I am running for May Bad Knit Girl. I never do stuff like this. However, this group of ladies is completely awesome (see above donation request). They are everything you’d ever want to see in a woman - sexy, sassy, sympathetic, and supportive. To be an official Knit Girl, I need votes. Lots and lots and lots of votes. The competition is stiff - all of the chicks are rockin’. To put into words what this group has done for me is difficult. I can say that the women have helped me restore my faith in myself in more ways than I can count. I am a better person for knowing these ladies. Please, therefore, vote for me. If you don’t want to vote for me, then vote for one of the other ladies. Any of them deserve to win. Just get out the vote! Go to Bad Knit Girls and you’ll see a button under the banner, second from the left, that says “Vote!!” That will take you to the voting page. Thanks in advance to all of you who will vote and thanks to those who already have!

Very late Saturday night, Max decided to go all “devil puppy.” Sometimes, I swear, the little Booger gets things into his gigantically proportioned little cranium and just…doesn’t…let…go. He decided to raid the dirty laundry pile on the bedroom floor, which I probably shouldn’t publicly admit is sitting on said bedroom floor. Three times he brought out Mr. Adventure’s sock. In an attempt to end the raids, Robolego Dinosaur came to guard the pile. All I can say is that riotous hysterity ensued.

 First, he tried to get Robolego Dinosaur away from the laundry:

Then, when Robolego Dinsosaur attacked, he went on the offensive:

And yes, I realize how this officially means I am “that” dog lady.

 Temples in religious history are sites of reverence and wonder. Some of the greatest works of art reside in these places of worship. Michaelangelo’s greatest work was the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. The structure of temples contains both meaning and art. Again, reverting to the Vatican City, St. Paul’s Cathedral was built not just as a site for worship, but contains symbolic artistic meaning in the placement of its columns. These artistic traditions began in prehistoric times. Newgrange , the paleolithic passage tomb in Ireland, was both a tomb and a site of worship. One of the most recognizable images in Irish art is the tri-spiral carving on the entrance stone to the tomb, created some 2500 years before the Celts arrived on the island.

Moreover, temples have been places of worship in every culture. People go to them in times of joy and sorrow. They find their own inner peace in them. People celebrate life and death, renewal and removal in these places. From both a historic, personal, and artistic viewpoint, temples and churches have proven their importance. Raised a Catholic, I was taught that my body is my temple. Similar to these sites of religious worship, my temple, too, has engravings that tell history of its existence.

People often question my decisions to get tattoos. These people, in various manner of articulate or inarticulate speech, receive the answer that I like having my own pictorial history. Each piece of artwork on my body marks a specific moment in my life. Each has a particular meaning in its own way.  While the moments in my life that led me to each of these images have passed, having a reminder of these moments is important to my understanding of myself today. Each is a symbol of a growing strength and self-assurance.

Take, for example, my very first tattoo. I first honored my temple at the age of twenty-three. I had wanted a tattoo since I was eighteen. However, growing up, I had always been the little good girl. The type of girl who never does anything out of the ordinary. For me, that first tattoo was a moment of self-realization and self-actualization. For the first time, I was acting solely for myself, doing what I wanted for myself, not following a set societal principle. I can remember fearing the painful onslaught with the first hum of the buzzing needle. The image to be tattooed was one that had given me strength through my formative years. As a child, I had worn a Native American pendant. A bear with the life sign and bear paw engraved on it. To me, the combination of symbols always meant that strength and life came through inner strength and introspection. Thus, it was with this in mind that wore my pendant for the first time in years and handed it to the artist who then tattooed it on my ankle.

My second tattoo was my favorite for a long time. I had played the violin from the time I was eight until I was in my early twenties. However, for as traditional an instrument as it was, I had always loved the twist of the electric violin. The reason for my adoration of the Dave Matthews Band lay entirely in Boyd Tinsley and his electric violin stylings. My original goal was to have two violins done. The blue electric violin on one shoulder blade was to represent myself. Later, I would have my own instrument tattooed to represent Mr. Adventure. The tattoo was done three months before my wedding in 2002. At the time, I needed to remind myself that no matter what definition I used to describe myself, I would always be me. Marriage would not change who I was, just add to it. I love Mr. Adventure, but marriage is intimidating. I wanted to have a physical reminder of who I was, so as not to lose myself and my identity in this new phase of my life.

On our honeymoon, I talked Mr. Adventure into getting tattoos. We went to Tatouage Artistique in Montreal for the art. I can remember walking there. The lunch that we had beforehand. The guys in the shop. When we got to the shop, I felt the need to have a Celtic knot. I am not Irish, but Mr. Adventure is of Irish heritage. I wanted to have a representation of my new heritage as we were now family. I wanted larger. He wanted smaller. One of the first of many compromises of our married life was the choice of tattoo. Both of us got our tattoos at the same time with different artists. I remember it being one of the highlights of the trip for me. Even now, I can look at it with fondness and as the tattoo ages, so does our life together. Just as a new tattoo heals slowly to become part of your body in such a way that you cannot remember what the skin looked like without it, so too does a relationship age such that you forget what your life was like without the other person.

My fourth tattoo is my “yoga phase” tattoo. The summer between my third and fourth years of law school was spent predominately alone as Mr. Adventure prepared for the Bar exam. To fill my time, I returned to yoga, an activity that had given me great peace a few years earlier. I became immersed in it. I read parts of the Bhagavad Gita. I used yoga to help me find my own inner peace once more. I came to many realizations that summer. Again, I felt the burning desire for ink. I researched terms I found important to myself. At the time, I was on a journey for spiritual peace and knowledge. The Sanskrit word jnana, meaning spiritual knowledge or wisdom, fit my journey. The image was placed on the inside of my right wrist. I intended it as a constant reminder of my search for personal knowledge and peace. The tattoo ended up far larger than I originally intended and far bluer than I had originally intended. Looking at it, I realize I should have stood up to the artist, perhaps asked for it to be made a bit smaller. I should have used the strength and wisdom that it was intended to represent. However, even though it is not as intended, it is more perfect for its imperfection. I do love it. It is a beautiful shade of aqua blue. Perhaps not the shade of blue I intended, but again that imperfection is perfect. I often see it throughout the day, reminding me to be who I want to be and to trust in myself.  

Tattoo number five is the size that the jnana tattoo was supposed to be. It, too, is located on the inside of a wrist. The image, an inverted G-clef, is the logo for my business. I left a corporate job for many reasons. Although at the time it was not my favorite option, it was a necessary move. I made sure to have the appointment for the tattoo on my last day of work. I had determined what my business would be called. I had determined what my logo would be. The only remaining piece of the puzzle that was my life was to commemorate the life change with ink. That morning I went to work, completed packing up my cube, and had my exit interview. I said good-bye to those I would miss. I carried my box of personal belongings to my car. As I skipped through the parking lot, I felt renewed. I drove with the windows down even in the intense heat and humidity of a June day. I baptized myself in ink as I started my new life.

My last and most recent ink has been two years in the making. For me, each tattoo has its special moment in time. The ideas may come long before they have their moment to be made into reality. Each tattoo commemorates a moment in my life that indeed deserves it. Had I gotten my new ink when I first conceived it, it would not be as fulfilling. My life is indeed good. I am a happy, content woman. I have a wonderful husband and two wonderful dogs. My tattoo has four trinity knots, representing each member of my little family, self included. When I first designed my tattoo in my mind, we had only one dog. Thinking on it, I realize how much more perfect having the fourth knot is. The four knots create a circle. A perfect unity of four lives joined together. OK, so, two are dogs. However, the life we live is not always the life that we intend to live. My life, as it is, verges on perfection. I am content. I love my family - extended or immediate, by blood or by friendship. I love the work I do. The Gaelic word “athas” means joy. My life is one of joy. Sure, there are mini-sorrows, but overall, it is a good life. My life may not be what I thought it would be in some ways, but it is good. Sometimes, we need to have reminders of these aspects of our lives. My ink is bright, happy and large enough to be an easy reminder in difficult times. It is something to which I can turn in dark moments. Plus, it’s a little bit rock star. For anyone interested, it was done by Dean at Body Graphics .

Tattoos serve different purposes for different people. For me, they are the pictorial history of my life. They allow me to reconcile my past with my present and give me a sense of where these fit in my future. They help me see the meaning in the individual moments in life and give those moments context. Tattoos are more than ink. They are artwork. They commemorate. The art on my temple both worships and reveres a life well lived.

Thirty. Three. Oh. The Big One. The end of one’s twenties - those years of school and beginning to negotiate one’s way in the grown up world without school. My big three -oh was last Friday, the 15th. I am no longer one of those irresponsible twenty-somethings. I’m Thirtysomething. There used to be a whole tv show dedicated to people like me. Now, even thirty is old since we dedicate shows to being Quarterlife .  

Mr. Adventure, knowing my desire to pretend the day didn’t exist, took me to the Big Apple, New York City. New York City is, to me, the most amazing city in the world. I say this having traveled to such glorious places as Rome, London, Dublin, and San Francisco. I love all of these places, don’t misunderstand. New York, however, is magical to me. New York is a city of contradictions. The dirty, grittiness of the streets contradicts the pristine, high class attitude of the restaurants and museums. The culture of the the theaters, opera, and symphony contradicts the various strip clubs, pornography stores, and homeless people on the streets. No matter how long it has been since my last time in New York, going back always fills me with a sense of excitement, awe, and comfort. I have never lived there; I barely understand what is considered uptown, midtown, and downtown. I have no idea how to negotiate the city on my own. However, none of that is daunting. The people push and shove, but the city is alive. You can almost feel it breathing, moving, heaving under the weight. This energy is what makes New York so unique.

The whirlwind weekend included a trip to the Museum of Modern Art, where we spent three hours wandering through the various rooms and taking in a lecture on the evolution of Pop Art in New York. The MoMA is an amazing place. The works inspire thought, regardless of whether you like them or not. Magritte, Monet, Warhol, Pollock, and Van Gogh fill the walls. Le Corbusier’s sketches suggesting removal of individuals from the streets hang next to Frank Lloyd Wright’s organic works. Walking amongst this brilliance gives you nothing but a sense of your place within the larger intellectual community. These works remind us that whether or not you like a particular painting or sculpture or design, these individuals got us to think about ideas and images. They managed to make us look at the world in a whole new way.  The genius of these artists is not their individual works, but the thoughts and feelings they inspire in us - whether it be hatred or adoration. Ahh, the MoMA is a wonderful place.

Oh yeah, and they let you take pictures of the works.

Lunch on Friday was at the Carnegie Deli. Piles upon piles of corned beef for Mr. Adventure and pastrami for me. All of this was smothered in Swiss cheese and layered upon some of the most sumptuous rye bread to make the most delicious open-faced Reuben you could imagine. Halfway through, the sandwich won, and my stomach could take no more.

That evening, we went to see Rent . Alas, a classic musical from my youth is about to see its last days on Broadway. Although we have seen Rent numerous times over the last nine years and own the DVD of the movie, watching it live on Broadway has a certain electricity to it. Indeed, in watching the story, I never cease to be fascinated over how rapidly our society managed to evolve in the last twenty years. When Rent first opened in 1996, the storyline involving homosexuals, drug addicts, an HIV/AIDs was both groundbreaking and shocking. The story itself takes place in New York City in the late 1980’s. In the 1980’s, people diagnosed with HIV/AIDS were given a death sentence. Today, we have people who haved lived with the disease for twenty years or more.  Treatments have changed. Today’s youth is seeing a resurgence in HIV/AIDS because they do not fear its consequences any longer. The world is not safer for these medical achievements, yet it is different. The New York City of the story no longer exists with squeegeemen and fear of violence on every corner. The world is a different place, and Rent must be placed in its historical context. A historical context living in my memory.

Saturday afternoon and early evening were spent eating with family and friends who live near or were visiting the City and window shopping in Soho. Saturday night, however, we hit up Connolly’s in Times Square to see Black 47. (For those of you in the Hartford area, they will be at the Half Door on February 29, 2008.) Black 47 keeps getting better and better. Although I may not always agree with their message, the music on the new album is reminscent of their older sound with a new twist on it. As always, Kirwin’s voice is distinctive. Having seen them many time, but never at Connolly’s with their hometown crowd where the performance far surpassed their tour concerts, which is saying something. The band fed off the crowd while the crowd fed off the band. The pure pounding rock sound with its Celtic flavor reinvigorated me after a long day of food and walking. It was like a jolt of espresso to the system, a two hour burst of energy inducing perfection.

Sunday, the trip wrapped up with brunch in the West Village and some more wandering around. Boots were purchased on sale at Shoegasm . A flea market in Chelsea was visited. Some wakling around watching the everyday lives of New Yorkers was done. We headed back to the hotel to pick up our bags for our train ride home. As we emerged from the Subway station, we heard honking and screaming and saw backed up traffic. We looked around and were met with this:

An impromptu parade by people whose native homeland or place of family origin had just declared independence. Flags representing Kosovo and the United States flew proudly from cars, trucks, and the hands of revelers. T-shirts proclaiming “Thank you US!” were wedged through the windows of all manner of vehicles and adorned all manner of people - young, old, men and women. Strangers on the street joined the melee with whoops of excitement and joy. Once again, I was led to realize what an amazing city New York is. Where else in this country do we see such warmth and such an embrace of those who may not have been born here? Where else does this kind of gratitude for our country manifest itself? In a city built on the blood, sweat and tears of immigrants, the denizens and visitors alike still welcome, perhaps more so today, the world’s tired, hungry, and poor. As I gazed upon the scene, I realized that my eyes were tearing up in joy for these strangers. I was an American in America’s city. Forget what they say about New Yorkers. True New Yorkers are generous of heart in their own bursque, hurried way.

As we rattled towards Penn Station in one of the infamous New York cabs, I reflected upon the weekend. I am no longer a target demographic in the 18-29 year old bracket. I may continue to be bombarded by beer advertisements and tech toys geared for those in the disposable income bracket. However, I am not the audience. I get to check off a different box - one that bumps me into a different type of adulthood. I am a thirty year old, and I am fine with that. Cheers to checking off a different box.

A few days ago, an email survey went around in which one of the questions asked was, “What did you want to be when you grew up?” The answer given by yours truly was, “teacher or actress. Which turns out? Same thing.” Then, I’m sitting watching a DVD of Connecticut Forum’s “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum” from last year in which Bob Saget, Mo Rocca, and Nancy Giles discussed comedy. At one point, the comedians discussed the difference between old time comedy in which many jokes were based on people laughing at themselves and society, a la Archie Bunker, and present day comedy, in which comedians have to be sensitive to the ethnic/racial/gender makeup of the audience.  Bob Saget said, “New people that are coming up…you have to love your audience and you have to love performing.” All of a sudden, the light bulb went on. For someone who is generally an introverted person, teaching is a performance of love.

One of the biggest problems educators have is getting students involved in learning. Making them intellectually curious becomes more and more difficult every year. One of the issues that many teachers discuss is how to involve students in the joys of learning as opposed to just wanting good grades. Listening to stand up comedians, the parallel between standing up in front of a class and standing up in front of an audience becomes clearer. The same improvisation on the stage is necessary within the classroom.

Take, for example, an eight o’clock in the morning class. The most difficult part, at least at the college level, is getting the students to continually come to the room at that ungodly hour twice a week. Students will come to class only if they want to be there. In order to engage them intellectually, a good teacher needs to entertain. When students are entertained, they are interested. When students are interested, they become curious. When students become curious, they are willing to learn.

Learning is about connection. Connection between the topic being taught and the students’ lives. Connection between the students and the educator. The best educators create this connection through caring about their students. Standing in front of students and showing one’s humanity creates a connection between students and teacher. Making students laugh makes learning fun. Exhibiting moments of full on stupidity, such as using humorous anecdotes from one’s life to make a point, are moments in which the teacher’s humanity allows students to see that person as a human, not just an authority figure. These moments are the moments that bind the students’ interest to the individual in front of them and to the topic at hand. These moments of entertaining are no different than putting on the persona of a particular character. When the educator is in front of twentysomething faces glaring up at him/her first thing in the morning, the person s/he is no longer exists. The educator exists. The teacher persona does not have to be one reminiscent of nuns with rulers. It is, however, sometimes not the same person that gets in the car to drive home. Acting the role of edutainer, educator/entertainer, in order to get students interested is what makes being a good teacher difficult.

Sometimes, jokes fall flat. These “cricket” moments are the ones during which the students stare at the person in front of them like he has a third eye in the middle of his forehead. In some respects, teachers have to be willing to face these moments of minor failure in the classroom. These brief moments of personal failure are worth the humiliation when viewed in the greater scope of the moments that succeed. The moments in which the teacher entertains and connects. Those are the small spaces in which the connection that leads to learning manifest themselves. In these spaces, the educator can find her greatest successes. When the students fill those gaps with their laughter or their interest, they are suddenly willing to learn. This learning, this interest, becomes curiousity. This curiosity can spur the students to something greater.

These are the spaces between being an educator and an entertainer. In these moments, educators prove their love of their audience and their love of entertaining. These are the moments when teachers act like entertainers and when actors become teachers. These are those brief moments of brilliance and connection in learning.

In the course of my catching up on blog readings, I came across this via the Yarn Harlot . The idea appealed to me greatly.

Emily Dickinson has always been a personal favorite. Her work itself is inspiring, but even more so, she was one of the first female American poets to be taken seriously. Not only did she trailblaze as a female poet, she broke literary tradition by writing some of the first free verse poetry. Her voice compels the reader through its lack of meter and rhyme. The freedom of the lines removes the reader from the constraints of formality. Within the simplicty of the language and imagery lies a purity of thought that creates a sense of intellectual calm.

I briefly thought of trying to find something that was a lesser known poem instead of one of her more famous works. However, the poem I chose is one that has inspired me for years. It seemed appropriate to the day and to the goals of the silent poetry reading. When we traveled Ireland, one of my favorite parts was that the surrounding nature seemed old and wise. This sense of something greater is what Emily Dickinson talks about.

Part Two: Nature

LVII

SOME keep the Sabbath going to church;
I keep it staying at home,
With a bobolink for a chorister,
And an orchard for a dome.

Some keep the Sabbath in surplice; 5
I just wear my wings,
And instead of tolling the bell for church,
Our little sexton sings.

God preaches,—a noted clergyman,—
And the sermon is never long; 10
So instead of getting to heaven at last,
I ’m going all along!

Ever notice that occasionally, something comes along that has the most amazingly simple construction and yet it makes you rethink architecture? The Roman arch, for example. The act of putting stone into the rounded shape that built the aqueducts. The construction is simple. It’s utilitarian. It’s perfect.

This is the best description of Twisted from Knitting New Scarves . Twisted amazes me in how its simple construction is something that is not knitting in the traditional sense in my mind. To me, this scarf is architecture with yarn. I am not creating. I am not stitching. I am building. Granted, the author mentions that she based the design on the Infinity Tower being built in Dubai. However, the pattern is a special version of brilliance. In my excitement over this, I instant messaged a friend who knows nothing about knitting but is a super computer genius. I said, “have you ever read code that is just so beautiful in its simplicity, that it is a special version of perfection? That you sit there in awe looking at wondering how someone could manage something so simple yet so utilitarian yet so kind of mindset changing?” My friend responded, “Not often, but a few times. We call that ‘elegance.’” I thought for a second and realized that elegant is the best description of this pattern. The way that the stitches create a three dimensional quality through a simple yet unique manipulation? Elegant, simply elegant.

The Noro Silk Garden? The perfect yarn for this project since the color changes with almost every pattern repeat.

However, there’s more to this pattern than that for me right now. Many of my friends know that I’m not particularly a religious sort. I believe in God. I believe there’s something greater than me out there. I’m not going to argue that one. Formalized religion? Well, not quite so much. As some of my closer friends know, I’ve been having me an existential crisis. Thursday was a low low day. One during which I not only cursed at God, I asked Him (or Her) what the lesson I needed to learn was. Since I’m obviously deficient in something lately. It was at this point that I realized I needed to take a step back. I mean, really, there has got to be some mental imbalance or maybe even chemical imbalance when you scream at the ceiling assuming that there is a Great Being overhearing you. I decided that the best option was to crack open the Noro Silk Garden color 203 (now discontinued) I had just bought and cast on Twisted. The name, of course, being equally appropriate considering I was feeling as though my mind was a bit twisted.

Sitting down, I cast on the required stitches and started knitting. I made it through the rib section to the first twist. I followed the directions. I went to the back of the book to figure out how to split the rib stitches. I reviewed the directions. I moved step by cautious step. At each step, I looked at the results of my knitting. In my head, I just could not picture the final result. I could not visualize how the twist was going to occur. Sure, I saw how reducing the stitch number made it pinched in. However, it still seemed so flat. Weird looking, even. Then, I began the final set of directions and the reorientation of the stitches on the needles. I kept asking myself, “Am I doing this wrong? Is this right? How does this work? Is it really going to look right?” I reoriented stitches. I knit them back to the one needle. I started the next ribbing section.

Suddenly? It all be came clear. The pattern really did work. The directions were truly that simple. Just following and trusting in the pattern was all I needed. The pattern was that brilliant. The pattern was that simple. The pattern was that clear. All I needed to do was trust it, follow it, and let go of what my mind wanted to do, which was take over and control the knitting. Instead, with this pattern, you just have to trust the pattern and let the knitting take over. Once I realized that this pattern wasn’t about intellectualizing it or controlling it but about following it, things rolled along smoothly.

At this point, I admit, I had my first knitpiphany of the day. The pattern? Totally a metaphor for my existential crisis. I realized that I need to let certain things go. I cannot control them. I cannot intellectualize them. I need to free myself and just let things happen in the time and way they are meant to happen.

Then, I had my second knitpiphany of the day. Only forty minutes earlier I had been railing against God. I had been screaming, at the top of my lungs, that if there was something I needed to learn, please for the love of Yourself, at least give me some kind of hint. I mean, I’m all good with learning things. However, you have got to point me in the right direction. I am not psychic. I cannot figure things out with a nudge in the right direction. I suddenly realized that I was being nudged. I would not have cast on had I not felt I was going over the edge to crazy. I had bought the Noro because I had a gift certificate. I had gone in search of yarn because I was feeling a bit lost that day. Normally, I would have just worked on the projects I already had started. I am not one for many ongoing projects.  All these events of the day leading up to that moment were out of the ordinary for me. Something had guided me to go out and spend an afternoon doing something I do not normally do.

While I realize that perhaps there really is such a thing as coincidence, perhaps there is not. Perhaps I needed a little persuasion. Perhaps the lesson I needed to learn was to trust that things would work out, even when I am unsure. The simple, efficient answer is that sometimes you just need to let go and trust that the pattern, or that life, will work. That’s the elegance in life. Trust.

On this first day of 2008, I awoke late to a prophetic new beginning to the new year.

New snow. Just enough to cover up the old, dirty snow, the dog paw prints in the yard, and the vestiges of autumn.

Just like the new year covers up the ugliness of an old year, the new snow covers up the ugliness of the melting, dirty mush that was the old snow. The old snow, the dirt, the remnants of leaves left unraked still exist. The events of the previous year will remain with us in the same way. A new year is like new snow. It is a new beginning. A chance to have a clean beginning. A chance to start over and make changes. Eventually, the new snow will become old dirty mush. Eventually, the new year will bring its own challenges and heartaches. However, for one brief shining moment, everything is clean and fresh. It is a year of possibilities. It is a world of beauty.

May all your New Year’s Days be white.