Keep Reading for the Winning essays!
Thanks to everyone for your great essays about “Why You Knit”. It was so hard to choose just three, but we finally came to consensus and are happy to announce the winners (in no particular order) are Kelly Milne, Eve Dutton and Kirsten McFarlane. An honourable mention goes out to Morgaine Fitzpatrick for her wonderful essay, we couldn’t include it in the judging because it went way beyond in length but was so wonderful we wanted to mention it here. These essays along with all of the submissions will be posted here and around the store. They really are worth a look. Thanks again for taking the time to participate and congratulations to our winners.
WINNERS
My husband recently inherited a sweater his mother had knit her own father for Christmas 20 years ago. The sweater is a tawny, heather-flecked cardigan with a moss stitch yoke. Despite years of wear, Chris’ grandmother had kept it in excellent condition. Upon Baba’s passing, each of the grandsons received an article of clothing from his closet: a tweed hat from Ireland, a cashmere scarf, etc. But the beautiful sweater was bequeathed to Chris. It fits him perfectly, and the family can’t help but smile and shed a few quiet tears when they see him wearing it.
My husband was actually unable to attend his grandfather’s funeral due to the timing of his 3rd round of chemotherapy---treatment he is undergoing for the next 2 years since being diagnosed with a brain tumor. Cancer simultaneously simplifies and complicates life on many levels. Things that seemed so important before such unwelcome and unsettling news no longer hold sway, even while doctor’s appointments, treatment regimes, and expensive medications dictate the new reality of our family’s rhythm.
My mother-in-law taught me to knit soon after I joined the family, 10 years ago. I have always appreciated the way the craft balances art and functionality. Lately, knitting has helped me cultivate a mindfulness in the midst of a tumultuous and uncertain year---a quiet centre, as I sit in the waiting room at Cancer Care, or as I watch my son play trucks. It takes time and care to make beautiful clothes for the people I cherish in my life---gifts made with love, that I hope will be worn well, well worn, and passed on.
- Kelly
I used to knit, spin and crochet both at home and at the Wolseley Wardrobe knit nights because I needed to have something other than the ‘mum role’ day after day. Something just MINE, not having to share!
Now, now I try to knit, spin, crochet to keep my hands from shaking. To keep my brain from wandering to the nightmare that is my life. I can hardly breathe at times, yet my hands can still knit and purl or make a chain. I can barely get out of bed some mornings yet I can still draft roving and my feet can still push the treadle of my wheel. I can barely see for the tears some days, yet my eyes still see the beautiful colours of yarns and projects around me coming to life.
During the worst time, like tonight, when there is so much to do and incredible feeling of loss swirling in my brain. The quiet of the house is overwhelming; all I want to do is run away and never surface for air. I can turn to a skein of yarn or a book or look at the Ravelry forum. I can find the light in this deep dark place I find myself in. All because I walked into the Tuesday night gathering a lifetime ago.
I am still here, however, tenuously, because of knit night and all those who enjoy.
- Kirsten
My shameful secret: I got a C in home economics. The sole blemish on an otherwise prestigious academic career.
When the C turned up on my report card, it took me a second to realize what it was, since I’d never seen one in that context. I even talked to my teacher, in case there had been a mistake. There had not—in fact, she felt she had been quite generous. When it came to the domestic arts, I was average. At best.
In general, the practical has never been my forté. I was that kid who sews all four sides of a pillowcase together before wondering how the pillow is going to get inside. I’m still that kid. As my former driving instructors can tell you, I learn by making mistakes: disastrous, terrifying, life-threatening mistakes. This is played out in the way I knit. My progress is slow, halting, riddled with creative swearing. I go back as often as I go forward.
But I like the challenge, and the satisfaction of holding my progress in my hands. I like that I can take simple tools and build things that are both practical and beautiful, and I like that I can share those things with friends and family. Most importantly, I like that yarn is forgiving; there is no mistake so catastrophic that it can’t be undone, or fixed, or simply lived with. That is the way I try to live my life every day.
And that’s why I knit.
- Eve
HONOURABLE MENTION
Why knit. Yes I suppose that question should be asked of any serious knitter like myself, but then again I'm not sure you could even call me a knitter. I began my lustrous career in the fiber arts at the sweet age of 6. If you however had asked my mother if I was sweet at that age, she might of had to say "no comment please". As a child, one may say I had an active ability to find trouble, to create trouble, to start trouble whenever I felt the need to. My poor mother and father tried many disciplinary actions with me, short of tying me up and shipping me off to some army boot camp. But I am certain that did cross their minds occasionally. My relationship with knitting is closely tied to the love I have for my mother. In my childhood, I never listened to her, obeyed her, or paid any heat to any consequence that she gave me that was of course until the frightening, terrifying incidence with knitting needles and yarn.
We were out one Saturday afternoon as a family enjoying each other's company with warm fuzzies all around to go. HA! My mother and I, instead of this Norman Rockwell picture, were in our usual discussion about all of her wrong doings and all of my right doings. She was simply wrong and I, of course, in my perfect way was right about everything. Except for maybe the first time I tied my sister up, or the third time I mailed her to timbuck two, or the fifth time I published her diary in the community paper. Okay, probably I did have a few issues, but I thought my mother consequenced me far too much especially in public. So creating this scene in one's mind, on one such day, when my mother and I are disagreeing on the moral ethics or giving one's sister to a stranger for free. Yes my thinking was not that straight back then, but if I had been smarter I would have noticed that I had just crossed the land of no return, the place where all parents go when nothing else has worked.
I pleaded my case this Saturday desperately that I actually began to believe myself, that my sister would be better off in another family so I could return to being the only child. Oh did I mention I was a twin, which of course I found totally irrelevant to myself. My mother turned around that day in the store and said to me in that very clear tone that could be heard across the world, "where is your sister?" I returned that question with "did I ever have a sister?" which led my mom furiously going up and down the aisles of the grocery store calling my sister's name. Well she found her at customer service, there that little rat was crying her eyes out because apparently the person I sold her to, thought she should leave her there. I knew the moment my mother's beaty eyes looked upon me that my freedom days were over. I was preparing for the blast of the century when my mother turned calmly to me and said "if you ever do anything like this again anywhere I’m going to make you knit as a consequence." Now some of you reading this may think "wow that's great consequence, teaching someone to knit". Did I mention that I hated knitting or that I found it a complete waste of valuable time, whereas my little goody twoshoes sister loved it. Of course I never knew when to stop talking in these situations I said so blankly at my mother "you can't make me do that". Where she said "Oh yes I can and I will" I thought secretly to myself "we'll see about that".
Unfortunately I did see about that, the next occasion where I again did not know when to stop talking I ended up knitting in broad daylight, in public, in the middle of the mall in a square that my mother made for me out of duct tape on the floor. I simply wanted to die. In fact, I was sure I wanted to die when the cutest boy in my class passed by and asked me what I was doing. I never learned from any first experience including this one. I had to test my mother's fortitude and resolved over and over again. She tested mine by each time handing me a piece of knitting needles and wool. Overtime the most funniest thing happened, it might even be called miraculous in some peoples books, I even hated to admit it myself. I started to love to knit! All I could think of was “Oh God, I can't have her figuring this out, I have my reputation to think of, that being the worst kid in the world.”. What was I going to do? I finally came up with a brilliant solution. After everyone went to bed at night, I'd set my alarm for 3:00am and I’d crawl quietly down the stairs into the living room, into the knitting bag and to begin to finish what I was knitting on earlier that day. It began to be like a sickness, there seemed to be no antidote for it. I woke each night earlier and earlier to knit until the point where I began to fall asleep in the morning in my cereal.
When my mother queried me about my sleepiness at the kitchen table, I just told her that I wasn't sleep very well at night. But one night when I was a little bit more tired than usual and I couldn't foregoal my nightly wandering to the knitting basket, I fell asleep on the couch with my knitting in my hands. It was there that my mother found me the next day. She woke me gently and told me that she loved me and that she was glad that I had taken on an art that had a long history within our family. She also said that perhaps I could start knitting during the day. She then led me up the stairs to her studio and made a small space for me under the window. Over the years, I found much comfort in that space and the love for my sister grew.
Even now way into my forties, I still treasure that memory. I knit because it brings me one step closer to my mother and my sister who have now died. And I also knit because it bring me one step closer to heaven.
- Morgaine
