Psalm 139

I love to knit. My mom taught me the basics during Christmas break of my freshman year in college, and I taught myself the rest from books and the Internet. In college, knitting kept me awake through boring lectures. I took notes between stitches. It got me attention from both peers and professors--some good, like the girl across the aisle from me who thought it was a good idea and brought her own knitting, and some not so good, like the professor who asked me if I was "expecting a bambino." (Right... because knitting automatically means one is either retired or pregnant). After college, my time and attention to knitting has naturally come and gone with my spare time, but now I find myself steadily working on at least one project at a time (sometimes more) during the quiet hours between Little's bedtime and mine.

My current project consists of a scarf made with recycled Sari Silk, and while the yarn isn't always easy to work with, I really love it. Before I can knit it, I have to wind it into a ball, and as I wound my third ball today, I thought about this yarn that passed through someone else's hands as it was being spun: the hands of a woman thousands of miles away, spinning this uneven thread, sometimes with twigs or rocks in it, spinning ever so quickly to make a living, sometimes unknowingly spinning one of her thick, long black hairs into it, a reminder that this yarn did not just materialize; somebody made it. Somebody held it, the way I hold it, fingers moving quickly to create a new fabric, a new piece of art, and the world felt a little bit smaller, if only for that one moment, spinning and knitting.