Half of my wools are on their way to Lebanon (via Edinburgh), with crochet hooks and knitting books; half are buried in the garden. Kidding! Just hidden from sight… Balls, hanks, skeins, spools, in coordinated hues, cry out for tireless hands to track ideas in loops and stitches, turn stones, whip up the dust in untrod regions of one’s mind. An element of care comes in, tending, mending, touching, making, an address of an other.
I am all thumbs now, spend stretches of the day eyes closed, and grieve the loss of a capacity which spurred me to delve deeper than I can without. As fingers fail imagination pales, connections wither. That a boxful of yarns may reach knitters and crocheteers in a community where lives are lived which we, boarders in a country that is battening down the hatches, cannot, will not fathom, is a wonder to me. It does not relieve my shame at the politics in our name.