Knitting
My mother knew how to knit (编织), but she never taught me. She assumed, as did many women of her generation, that knitting was no longer a skill worth passing down from mother to daughter. A combination of feminism (女权主义) and consumerism (消费主义) made many women feel that such homely accomplishments were now out of date. My Grandmother still knitted, though, and every Christmas she made a pair of socks for my brother and me, of red wool (毛线). They were the ones we wore under our ice skates (冰鞋), when it was really important to have warm feet.
Knitting is a nervous habit that happens to be productive. It helped me quit smoking by giving my hands something else to do. It is wonderful for depression because no matter what else happens, you are creating something beautiful. Time spent in front of the television or just sitting is no longer time wasted.
I love breathing life into the patterns. It’s true magic, finding a neglected, dog-eared (翻旧了的) old book with the perfect snowflake design, buying the same Germantown wool my grandmother used, in the exact blue to match my daughter’s eyes, taking it on the train with me every day for two months, working enthusiastically to get it done by Christmas, staying up late after the stockings are filled to sew in the sleeves and weave in the ends.
Knitting has taught me patience. I know that if I just keep going, even if it takes months, there will be a reward. When I make a mistake, I know that anger will not fix it, and that I just have to go back and start over again.
People often ask if I would do it for money, and the answer is always a definite no. In the first place, you could not pay me enough for the hours I put into a sweater. But more important, this is an activity I keep separate from such considerations. I knit to cover my children and other people I love in warmth and color. I knit to give them something earthly that money could never buy.
Knitting gives my life an alternative rhythm to the daily deadline. By day I can write about Northern Ireland or the New York City Police Department and get paid for it, but on the train home, surrounded by people with laptops, I stage my little rebellion. I take out my old knitting bag and join the centuries of women who have knitted for love.
KnittingThe author wore the red socks her grandmother had knitted for her