Knitting, like life, is full of transitions. We switch from knit to purl. Purl to knit. We cable left. Then we cable right. At first, as we learn and make our way, it’s awkward. Sometimes it gets better, and we find our groove. Sometimes it just stays awkward. And, sometimes, a project doesn’t work out at all. The yarn is wrong. The pattern is wrong. The needles are wrong. Or maybe they even break.
So we transition to a new project, hopefully learning from our mistakes along the way.
I have to say, when I bought my first house almost exactly 14 years ago at the ripe old age of 23, I never thought I would someday move back into that very same house, a mother, more than a decade later. An older version of my younger self.
Way back then (truly, I can hardly even remember, it feels so long ago), I don’t think I ever even paused to consider that I would someday be a mother. I was busy doing all the things young people do–going to grad school, working, talking on the phone (a landline, tsk!) with my friends at great length, and generally seeking out my path in the world. The internet was barely invented. Hek, blogs were barely invented.
And then life happened, setting me on a path that oddly lead me right back to where I started in a way I never really saw coming or imagined for myself at any point along the way.
The universe is funny that way. I have always found that the outcome that comes to fruition is the one possibility I never even considered. Not for lack of thinking or wondering (because I am a thinker and wonderer, typically over-examining all possible routes to the point of nausea…), but because that’s how life works. We set our course as best we can, but the winds of change–forces greater than our best intentions–sometimes blow us in other directions. New directions. For better or worse.
The path before me is unclear, and really I am just trying to settle in to my new (old) home, overgrown garden and all. When I decided to move, the first thing I loaded in the car was my stash of yarn. I don’t know why. Maybe that just made it feel real to me. If the yarn was moving, I was going with it. Now, weeks later, it was one of the last things to be unpacked. (And it still isn’t organized.)
I wasn’t sure where to put it.
It has a spot now. It’s on a shelf in a bedroom that long ago was home to my old roommates, two of which are still lifelong friends. It’s weird to see the yarn there, in their rooms. It seems misplaced somehow.
Everything seems misplaced somehow.
But then I remind myself that it’s a transition. And it’s only yarn.
Eventually, everything (and everyone) will find its proper place, which may, from time to time, move to a new proper place.
And that’s life.