I am not an expert.
I don’t know everything there is to know about yarn or writing or photography, although I have taken classes on all of these—and have a master’s degree in one.
Strings. Words. Images.
Sometimes I string together words into images. Sometimes I make things with string. Sometimes I just make string. Sometimes I make things with words; sometimes I just make words.
You get it.
I make messes.
I’m learning to be okay with those messes. To grow in those messes. In the tangled strings of yarn and words, I’m growing up. And out. And occasionally, I have something—an image, perhaps—to show for it.
Something to share.
At the close of a year that seems to have taken so much away—amidst all the tangled, tangled messes—I feel a certain tug within me that says,
Write. Create. Share.
I am not an expert. My opinions, like my voice, are feeble. I am not one to raise a stink, to rock the boat, to start a rebellion. I am conflict avoidant. A Libra. An INFP.
But conflict is no longer a choice. It just is.
Resistance is anything but futile.
In the wake of this year, my voice has started to peck a tiny crack in its shell, and it wants a nest from which to sing. To flash its colors. From which to swoop. In which to take a stand. Out of which to take flight.
When the desire to create stirs within me, I have been reaching first for my yarn these days.
Knitting needles, crochet hooks, a spinning wheel, and sometimes even a rigid heddle loom.
When words fail me, yarn is how I create.
Words have failed me for most of this year. For several months, even yarn did nothing.
Just before the election, though, I started spinning again. On November 8, I treadled hope, then fear, then devastation into something that could be woven.
And then the crochet hook began to feel natural in my hand. I started churning out hats and scarves to donate to young people who need them. For Christmas, my hands formed yarn into gifts of color and warmth.
My own revolution is being born from sticks and string.
And now, I feel words twisting and knotting inside me. Inside my head, my heart, my gut.
I do not want to fail these words.
So this thing I am making here is about yarn—and it’s not. It is a starting-off point. A leader, a foundation chain, a casting on.
There is somewhere to go from here.