The gift of used knitting needles, is gratefully received; many offered but I take only the wooden ones and a pair of size 0 lace needles. I offer to make a sweater for my sister and check my gauge. But I cannot bear the odor of another person on the needles. I have to put it down before the swatch is done. I have hankies from an estate sale I cannot use because they carry some residue (in my mind) of another. I suds up the needles in Dr. Bronners peppermint soap, and contemplate why I stopped. Knitting, that is.
I stopped painting again, feeling like a hack, it all comes down to self esteem right? A normal person would carry on, I suffer instead, with why bother syndrome.
Disdain then is what stops me, whether from myself or another.
I leave myself open like a sweater that has not been bound off. Unraveled by the slightest tug. Stitches getting dropped, or twisted.
Confession of your deepest feelings, met with combative response. A frond of hair touched in an off hand manner, I have met this knot before.
I used to dream that when I tried to ride the elevator, the doors would not work, either too fast and dangerous, or it drops out or it doesn’t go to the right floor. And then I realized in a dream that this elevator is not under my control. And it is dangerous. And I am just a passenger.
I pick up my knitting and as the needles click together and my tossed line stitching moves rapidly, even, clean stitches. Of my own design.