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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash

Like many others, I joined the ranks of crafters these past two years to help while away the boredom brought on by the stay-at-home orders throughout the pandemic. I took up knitting. My previous attempts at knitting began as a kid in my grandma’s living room, however, I was much too impatient to sit and toil yarn when there were great adventures to be had outside. I am still not certain what drew me back to the craft, but it does seem rather fitting. Isn’t this something middle-aged people should do?

Middle-aged or not, I started out by taking a few classes here and there; some online, some in-person and some via YouTube. I was feeling rather satisfied with myself at starting a new hobby; it made me feel young again. I was mesmerized by this whole new world of colours and textures; it was like opening Pandora’s box, only without all the nasty stuff. Knitting became an opportunity to express myself in ways I had not explored before, to create something tangible out of nothing; those of you who bake can surely appreciate this. Oh, the possibilities!

Once I became comfortable knitting and purling (and after everyone received a handmade scarf for Christmas that year, and not without the corresponding obligatory compliments on my fabulous work, of course), I thought I might expand my repertoire to include hats for the next year’s gifts. Or perhaps even strive for the epitome of knitting kingship … the elusive knitted sweater. I was proud of myself for being skilled enough to knit whilst watching Netflix (gasp!), so why not challenge myself further? Besides, aren’t middle-aged people expected to find hobbies at this stage in their lives? Something to fill the void left by children who no longer need constant attention or from the spouse whose companionship has settled into a comfortable silence of parallel activities rather than the fastened-at-the-hip-ness of new love? This madness of love stage long since passed on both sides of our marriage.

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Only, once I started knitting my first hat, I was met with nothing but … frustration. What is this? It was like my fingers were resisting; no longer did I feel comfort in the click-clicking of my needles or the familiar sense of relaxation that would melt over me as I would eagerly pick up the project I was working on. No, this was different … this was … stress? How could that be? Knitting isn’t meant to be stressful. Is it? I wanted a challenge, but this was a disaster. I had … lost my love for knitting!

After some deep introspection (fuelled by pinot grigio), it dawned on me that it wasn’t the knitting that caused this strange stress, this shift, it was the pressure to progress. Firstly, social narratives of the middle-aged woman dictate that in life we should progress, we should move forward. Being static was just simply not acceptable. In busying ourselves though, we actually cease to feel, to live. We forget to live in the moment. I realized that this was why I loved knitting so much: It offered an opportunity to live in that very moment, feeling the rigidity of the needles in contrast to the softness of the yarn and to create something wholesome.

This pinot grigio-induced revelation led me to ask, “Why must I progress from scarves to tuques, to socks, to mittens, and then, by golly, even sweaters? Why can I not simply stick to making scarves?”

Scarves offer a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. I start with a ball of yarn, and just … knit. I can make the scarf as wide or as long as I want. If I run out of one colour, I can change it up with another easily. I can create any pattern I wish. When knitting a hat or a sweater, you are limited by size and the pattern dictates when the project is finished; but with a scarf, I get to decide. It doesn’t need to be perfect either; no one would notice if it weren’t. Besides, there is a certain honesty in imperfection. There is freedom in knitting a scarf. Social narratives of the middle-aged be damned!

I love the simplicity of giving a handmade gift; it is a way of telling someone that “you matter to me.” There is joy in the process of both making the gift and giving it, and I believe this is part of what the holiday should be.

Before Christmas, I madly tried to finish work projects and my knitting. I had colours picked out for each family member and friend, and like it or not, it was scarves for everyone again. (And probably next Christmas, too.) As I sat on my couch in the late afternoon November sun, I found that familiar sense of peace wash over me when I picked up my needles. I was so at peace that I tried to knit whilst watching Netflix – with subtitles. But knitting and my predilection for Scandinavian crime dramas (the essence is simply lost when viewed with English dubbing) did not mix well. Perhaps I shall call them “Valentine’s scarves” instead.

Ashley Holloway lives in Calgary.

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