I’m usually boots on and out of bed by 5am most days. Feed the cat, start the coffee, brush the teeth, then move quickly to what ever teddy bear I was knitting on the night before.
My fingers rapidly slip through the maneuverings of knits and purls, my toe tapping madly as I count down the stitches before they’re increased. A brief pause as I sip my coffee, too eager to finish up whatever was left unfinished from the night before. Binding off begins as Mario leaps into my lap, the stitches falling off the bamboo needles with the simple float of a feather. To the side I lay my finished piece.
And slowly the haze of the fading moonlight shifts from blue, then to grey, before streaking beams of bright orange shift through the speckled air. There, as the dawn restrengthens all promises of a new day, of tabula rasa, I’ll pick up my needles and start the next teddy bear, almost immediately, with contentment seeping in, calmness resting on my shoulders, as I’m reminded of the promise of another chance to start again, begin again to make life right, with one new day, one new knitting project at a time.
We must never forget (or at least, I shouldn’t), that every time we pick up our knitting needles, we are given an opportunity to create something good, something that each morning glow brightens with promise, despite whatever raises the world to fervid anger, our knitting needles were intended to craft hope.
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