Start fresh

A new notebook, a trusty pen. On with the day. This one is spiral, small, simple. It can be tossed into my bag, or lie open on my desk.

It's not my journal; its purpose is utilitarian. It's where I will park my thoughts and needs and bits of knitting brainstorms, just for the time being. I'm a serious iCal user, and I love my any.DO app, too. But there's always something that needs jotting, isn't there?

Do you have a notebook?

Tiny anchors

There are rituals in knitting. At least there are rituals for me. Small ones — a bit of magic, a little thought, some small comfort. It's the same and different for all of us.

One of mine is the stitch marker. Which tiny anchor will I choose as I begin to knit? If it will serve to signal the beginning of a round, then it must be the right one, the perfect thing to catch my eye as I come to it, then slip it from left needle to right as I move around the circle. It is where I begin and end a piece of the pattern, where I stop to check the instructions or the chart. It is where I hurry to if I'm excited, or what I look longingly at if I'm slogging across hundreds of stitches.

If I need markers to help me count or space the pattern, then I have dozens to choose from. But that first one, the one for the beginning, must be chosen with care. It might have sentiment attached, or it might be practical. It might just "go" with the yarn. But I always choose it carefully, because even small rituals matter. Even tiny anchors have a place.

Do you have a favorite stitch marker, or a small knitting ritual?

Passing time

Rosemary says "It's time to get up."

Oh, this Rosemary is quite a cat. She has me, hook, line, and sinker.

I seem to have been missing again—I'm sorry. The past few months have been so busy, so full of work and knitting and new adventures and yes, a few challenges.

In knitting, there was Rhinebeck—a weekend of new traditions for Rebecca and me, since Rachel and Judy couldn't be there. We had some fun anyway.

Coffee at Gigi's

The beautiful gardens at Bard College

There was the Knitter's Review Retreat, my annual dose of knitter love. It has to last the year.

Inn on the Lake, Canandaigua, NY

And then... there came The Great White Bale. I'll have to write later about the loveliness that is my job as Clara Parkes' Director of Customer Happiness, but let's just say I'm having the time of my life.

And those challenges—well, they're the kind you just rise to meet. My visits to Dr. Pearl continue to be happy ones, although I'm in need of surgery to deal with some scar tissue, and it's scheduled for mid-February. I'll keep you posted.

Being a Jane

Rachel and her Jane (2010)

I had an encounter yesterday that didn’t evaporate during the night, and that is still sitting in my gut. A woman I know fairly well—my age, with grown children, who thinks of herself as a feminist, a forward-thinking and compassionate woman, and a nurturer—made some remarks that astonished me, and left me reeling a bit. I have a few things to say about it.

First, some background: I’m not a mother. I didn’t give birth to or adopt children. Rosemary, as dear as she is to me, is a cat and not a substitute child. 

However, I am a kind of parent. I am a Jane. There are children in my life, all grown now, who have counted on me, come to me, needed me in mundane and extraordinary circumstances. I changed diapers, read bedtime stories, had adventures, dried tears, watched “Milo and Otis” too many times, rocked babies, cooked meals, righted wrongs, gave advice, helped with homework, enforced rules, endured more school plays than any parent I know, gave first aid, made mistakes, played Go Fish, and cheered from the bleachers at little league games. I didn’t want to be a mother to all those children, because what I was and am is as satisfying and just as necessary. I am Jane, their Jane, the one and only.

Those children—the ones going off to college or raising children of their own or venturing out into the great big world—know the difference between their parents and their Jane. The parents—their actual mothers and fathers—have for the most part fostered my relationships with their children. There are benefits to them, too. And being a Jane, like being a mother, is a real job.

So back to the conversation: I was explaining to the woman I know fairly well that I'm going to spend part of Labor Day weekend taking Rachel to college in Maine. I’m one of her parents, I said, and I have the same responsibility to her as you do to your children. Her voice grew so chilly that I’m surprised the phone receiver didn’t ice over. It’s not at all the same as it is for me and my children. Not at all. It’s not as important. 

Where did that come from? I know that she is proud of the children that she and her husband raised, and that she loves them deeply, and that they have grown up well because of that. Somehow I threatened her, and so she tried to obliterate the truth of what I was saying. I began to get angry, really angry. But in a split second I decided to hold tight to what I know—that there is more than one kind of parent—so I waited. She flailed. I don’t know the history of your relationship with Judy’s children, she said.

No, Woman I Know Fairly Well, you don’t, and it’s too bad.

Obviously, her children never had a Jane of their own, poor things. There must have been no room for one, no room for someone else to love them, befriend them, or take care of them. They missed out on the fortune of having an extra parent, the awesomeness of having a Jane.

What does this have to do with knitting? I don't know, but I'm going to knit while I ponder.