I miss knitting.
My fingers itch for the comfort of building something to specifications that will, when complete, likely work as predicted.
Imagine a knitting universe in which the pattern was always changing, necessitating frogging because who said anything about cables, and this isn’t lace at all, and what happened to the last forty (or four hundred (or four thousand))) rows, anyway? And the yarn is a different color now. And this was actually a crochet pattern, oops.
I didn’t know, until my knitting grew so infrequent, how much I treasured the orderliness of knitting. I thought the gauge swatches, the measuring, the careful counting of stitches, were tiresome. But knitting has a beginning and a middle and an end, and I know when I am done, and when I am done I know what I have.
Writing is fast becoming my life. I’m tremendously lucky that I’m able to do it as much as I can. It’s the thing that I should be doing, and I love it.
But it’s not knitting.
So, tonight, I’ll close the laptop and handle a little Malabrigo.