I should probably explain a few things about myself. I am a consummate day dreamer, bizarrely coexisting with OCD. I can have five chores spinning at once, only to nearly walk outside in my underwear because I forgot to finish getting dressed. I am an avid reader and a movie buff, with tastes ranging from Agatha Christie to Anne of Green Gables, from fantasy and space sagas to torrid romances, from Twelve Years a Slave to Christian spiritual thrillers. I have become consumed with Middle Eastern Dance….I love the movement and the music, my hip scarves and zills, but am still building my courage to move from classroom to public performance. And then I have this thing about Yarn.
I knit and crochet. To those who share my yarn lust, this little sentence is synonymous with a password into a hidden international community. Yarn is not only about craft, but denotes a lifestyle of art, of history, of zen-like absorption, of sister(and brother)hood. Others like me will understand when I say that I do not leave the house without yarn. I always have some small project in case I have 10 minutes free, or need the associated serotonin-release that can be as effective as a drug, and is scientifically proven to calm the head, the heart and even pain.
This life means aggravation from a dropped stitch or an error found inches below your active work, or a knot in your yarn that will take hours to unravel. But it also includes the thrill of a project that becomes like a child you watch grow, the deep satisfaction of seeing someone you love wearing your work, and handing over a bag full of hats or blankets for the needy. The obsession affects old-country great-grandmas, twenty-something homemakers, high-powered executives, and new-age hippies alike. It brings us all together through an understanding that connects us as soon as we make eye contact on a bus or sitting in the park, our kindred-spirit connections usually starting with, “What are you making? Can I feel your yarn?”