The Sweater: Telling my Story

Four women sit with tea at a small square card table in the entryway of SuperNova. 

Expecting to find a bohemian clothing boutique and yoga studio, 

I make a double take adjusting my orientation. Amongst the worldly prints, almost hidden in the fabric, I see the women are knitting. 

Quietly focused, they each peek up only with their eyes and hints of grins, as if what they are doing is a secret. I could have sworn they whispered in unison, "We've got one."

One woman swivels her head like owl, curious to set sight on the wandering soul at the door, 

greeting me deeper into the center.

A warmth of stories, magic and small town gossip lingers between echos of clicking needles, 

and I've just slipped a stitch into the woven language.

"Is this a knitting class?" I ask.

"We just get together and knit. We bring whatever we're working on."

"Can anyone join?" I inch closer.

"We meet once a week." They respond.

"So where are ya coming from?" they proceed. Still peering with curious gaze... an attempt to build trust.

I tell them I'm a traveler, up here in my campervan for a winter writing cocoon; To rewrite my story. That the last I was here 2 years ago, I was living off grid in the winter with an ex partner renovating a log cabin and even though we parted ways, I felt a powerful connection to the land. I knew I had to return to grieve and bring closure to heartbreak... to make new memories and reclaim this place as my home too.

They seemed intrigued. 

"Wow! I love that you're doing this for yourself!" they supported.

"In your campervan, hey?! For the winter?" one sounded surprised.  Slightly unconvinced...

"Yep! I installed a tiny wood stove in my van to stay warm, inspired by my off grid experience here.

We will see how it goes!"

I share that I had been on the road since May from Taos, New Mexico where I bought 3 skeins of hand spun alpaca at Taos Wools. A rustic yarn shop nestled at the foot of the mountain, just before the road returns to earth. It was one of my favorite places to walk... along the dirt road that traces the forced edge of the Pueblo boundary, defined with a barbed wire, sagebrush, juniper, and chamisa fence line on one side and red willow laced stream on the other.

Every morning I took a wander down the earthen road after writing and coffee at the only cafe. Then stopped to greet the yarn. Grazing my hands over each skein like blades of grass, holding them to my cheeks to determine if it would be too itchy. I knew I wanted a yarn that was soft and gentle, something I could wear naked and feel delicious and cozy in. To feel at home. At that time of my life, I was in deep grief and renewal, being with the yarn was a hug and tug to my heart strings. I picked up the yarn with the intention of knitting a sweater, without a clue how to begin and had been looking for a group to learn. I hadn't found one until now...

"We meet every week. You're welcome to join us." one woman invited.

"I don't know how to knit." I confessed.

"We can teach you." They proclaimed.

"No really, I know nothing. I have the yarn, needles and pattern.  I know I want to knit a sweater. That's about it. I don't care what it looks like, I just know I have to, " I explained.

"The last time I knit anything I was 14. My best friends grandma taught us while on summer vacation at her cottage in lower MI. It was a scarf of course, which I still have. Scattered with holes.

I'm telling you, I am going to need A LOT of help." I clarified. Doubtful of their invitation... giving them another chance to retract their premature welcome. 

Beginners typically start with a scarf. Something simple. Something square. Surely they would call me crazy or too ambitious and turn me away. Or tell me to start with a scarf.

"We hope to see you next week." They reassured.

They must have sensed my will to weave.

That was enough in woven tongue.

I had to pinch myself... of all the crafts I could have brought with me cross country, 

I brought yarn... purchased back in January with the intent to learn. It was now October. I knew then that I would want a winter craft during my writers retreat and solitude. Something of the earth to hold and shape between my hands while between writing and wanders in the wild.

Here I was, six months later, far away from home in a place I had called home years ago... a lone spider woman caught in the web of weaving. Awake in the dream. A prayer answered.

I returned the next week, slightly nervous but ready for the unknown and met, Nancy. 

My first day in knitting mystery school, she took me under her wing.

Every week, for a month, multiple times a week, I knitted with Nancy. A wildcard. In the absolute best way. She had a fire and edgy flavor about her that could be missed first glance. A mix of underground activism and spunk from the big city with a heart for small town community crafting network and natural landscape. Nancy is a knitting legend.

Knitting as a Way of Life

Rule #1 Make something you will actually wear. Don't be a square. As in, don't limit yourself unless you genuinely want to make a square ✔️ I had my sights on a soft milky white alpaca sweater.

Rule #2 Set yourself up for success. Before you can begin to knit, you must first wind your skein of yarn into a ball by hand or with a winder. I spent over 3 hours untangling my new skein of alpaca on the floor of the wool shop and another 3 hours with a second skein. Over 6 hours just untangling the damn things. I guess there was something I needed to untangle within myself before I could have a smooth journey forward. As much as it sucked, I took my time, keeping it loose so it would not bind up into a tighter knot. There are no knots in knitting! ✔️

Rule #3 Show up and knit ✔️ I went every week for 2 months to knitting group including to Nancy's home, which I could walk to, 4 houses down from where I was staying. Eventually, two times a week and sometimes twice a day to Nancy's house, because just when I thought I knew what I was doing, I would get home and get stuck... and called Nancy. 

Nancy and I would sit for an hour or two by the expansive window in her living room looking out to Lake Superior, or it would be a quick sit at the edge of the couch just to get me back on track. Most of our knitting meetups were quiet. For the longest time I couldn't tell if Nancy even liked me... I asked her questions about her life and she answered, but I don't recall her asking anything about me. Knitting was our way of getting to know one another and I was taking notes. I took Nancy's lead, talked less and kept knitting. In the back of my mind, in the words unspoken but felt, I still wondered about Nancy's life and what she thought of me. Maybe she thought I was a lost cause... maybe she felt sorry for me struggling to knit... maybe she felt a sense of compassion for me because I was new to town,  living alone in my van... maybe she felt the story I was carrying and wanted to help me write it... maybe she could relate... maybe she felt some obligation to help... maybe she took pride in showing the way... maybe she truly enjoyed the exchange of teacher student... maybe she loved having a new knitting buddy who was keen to knit at all cost... maybe she needed this as a part of her story too... maybe we were somehow helping each other... maybe it was all of the above! I couldn't tell. 

But, I kept showing up. I kept knitting. ✔️ ✔️  The more I showed up, eventually stories about Nancy would come as a pleasant surprise, bubbling out of the silence, squeezing through the stitches. Including the tale of her throwback ladies sewing circle. "A spaghetti measuring tool was used for men to leave their manhood if they wanted entry (none ever did)." she bubbled over, us both bursting into laughter. If you're lucky, maybe Nancy will tell you the rest.

After weeks of knitting with Nancy, I figured she wouldn't have continued inviting me to her home if she wasn't getting something in exchange. But, just in case there was a hair of obligation, I made sure to bring the occasional homemade goodie to share in my attempt to keep a strong bond and genuinely let her know how grateful I was for her help. To be clear, I would not have made a sweater without, Nancy. For this, we are friends for life (whether she feels the same or not!). I believe we made an impact on each other, and just like my sweater, there will always be a soft spot we have for one other.

Rule #4 Loosen up and enjoy the ride. As in, don't knit so tightly that you hate knitting because you can hardly knit at all, and don't knit so loosely it looks like you are uninterested. Relax. Enjoy the ride. Don't be so up tight or take yourself so seriously but be present and thoughtful. Be present but let yourself be taken by the experience. Like most things we try for the first time, we might be tense or awkward... afraid to fail, we may become hyper fixated and too controlling of the experience or too stuck in our mind and miss the subtle cues of our body... and miss the point. With firsts, we are filled with both anxiety and excitement. Confusion and hesitation, yet the confidence and innocence to try. We don't know what we don't know, until we know. For me, holding the needles between my fingertips and wrapping the yarn around my knuckles so it could easily glide through was awkward, uncomfortable and unfamiliar. I had to be patient, practice and build relationship to the materials of knitting... a language I had not spoken before. As I oscillated between too tight and too loose, I eventually submerged into the "flow state"; when my mind, body and knitting were unified. We knew the direction, felt it, became it and let go, untethered... the winds of spirit rushing through our wild hair. You might say it runs parallel to love-making. You become one. You become what you are knitting. An entangled beautiful mess. ✔️

Rule #5 It's the process, not the product. You can imagine while knitting, or love-making, there may come a time when you become addicted. You're in it. Warmed up and in the flow. You've found a steady pace and suddenly some force takes over and you can't stop. You've been at it for an hour, for weeks, for months and you're so close to being done. You can see the finish line and you want to feel the sweet sweet gratification of completion or you may want to just be done already. You might also finally find your rhythm and be enveloped by the sensation of "Sloop Click Swish" of the needles or the push of your thumbs over the bunched up stitches, and the consistent poke of your pointer finger atop the needle giving you a touch of pain in the pleasure. Just one more round, just one more row, just one more stitch. There is nothing wrong with being in this invincible force of flow state, becoming one with knitting or our lover; forgetting where we are; forgetting where the yarn ends and we begin. Until, it is midnight and the wick of your candle is flickering out, you become hangry and agitated, your lips parched, and you are doing the motions without feeling connected. This means you have now ventured into an out-of-body experience instead of an embodied one; Riding the edge of creation alongside madness.

You are no longer one, you are anxious, exhausted and over the edge of creation into destructive patterns. In this place we are more prone to making careless mistakes, make wrong judgements, no discernment, no connection and potentially hurt ourselves or each other. Take it from me, I now have a calloused right pointer finger with two recovering puncture wounds from knitting this sweater in just over a month. There were moments I was possessed. Riding a knitting high. It felt so good to finally be in the trawls of knitting that I couldn't stop. Not even for bloody fingertips. 

I assure you, it's worth the patience. Take breaks. Pause. Eat something and hydrate. Go for a walk and come back with new eyes. Read some poetry together. Breathe deeply. Make a nice meal. Luxuriate in the process not the fixation of the destination.

Being immersed in wild abandon is liberating, yummy and sacred until the privilege is abused and becomes an obsession. However, we will only know when we have taken advantage of this untamed pleasure until we go past the edge into uncharted waters. We must feel the chaos and let go just enough to feel the difference between comfort and safety, and loss of control in order to bridge our anchored presence and free spirit. Eventually, we get tired, dipleated and can go no further. Eventually, we learn the art and discern the pace of knitting, and love-making; the way of living and dying.

Rule #6 Knit for yourself too. One week of knitting group and visiting with Nancy, and I was invited to another knitting circle in the next town. I carpooled with Nancy. We arrived at what looked like an old hospital with a cross on the outside. A building of many alterations. The Finnish American Folk School, where we were headed, was tucked on the bottom floor. 

We parked out back by the dumpster and pried open the heavy metal door... unassuming and inconspicuous for knitting, but I stayed curious. We passed through a storage room of random building and cleaning supplies before approaching a chilly tiled hallway... a wooden loom to the right with a rag rug halfway complete and a pile of slippers, boots and tennis shoes scattered outside the first door on the left.

We took off our shoes and stepped through a threshold into yet another web of weaving.

10 or more women sat chuckling, knitting clothing of wide varieties, of various experience, backgrounds and ages. An underground hive humming with hand dyed hues, handspun fibers from all corners of the globe, yarn donations from women who left a legacy, clothing and bedding scraps, inkle and floor looms... The room cocooned with warmth; itself a sweater. 

But what warmed its chrysalis was the primordial soup of women within, weaving their stories into the fabric of life. 

Helen, a beginner like me was knitting a scarf, Phyllis, a tall slender woman who adorned herself with colorful whimsical hats and sweaters and purple rimmed glasses, Gretchen, a red haired flame from Kentucky like me, who cracked a joke quicker than one could "frog" (a knitting term for ripping out your stitches; Sometimes with rage sometimes with satisfaction.). Sarah, who I ended up living with most of my stay, was crocheting a sweater jacket with a cascading waterfall and huge green leaves falling down the front as if she were engulfed by the rainforest. Clare, the founder and director of the folk school, knitting an intricate stocking for her little love with cream and ruby red holly and fox and deer and bear, and Polly who was making baby doll clothing and taught me how to hold my needles, her husband also a weaver, and Barb knitting a sweater for herself with bison wool. There were women knitting with their babies, women knitting for their partners, their siblings, their grandkids, the local shelter... we each had a cause. Each had a purpose. Brought together by our will to weave.

Each of these women became a thread of my sweater. ✔️

Rule #7 Tell your story. Knitting circle gave us a safe place to share our stories, through voice and craft. A space accepting of each unique thread we were bringing. For the two hour duration we gathered together, we didn't stop knitting unless it was to help someone else with their knit or, my favorite part, show and tell. When someone completed what they were knitting, we stood tall and revealed what we had made, usually with relief, a bit of vulnerability and overwhelming joy. Like a baby being born, the women witnessing were its doulas, its aunties. We wanted to touch it, hold it, feel its soft skin. To rejoice in its preciousness, to give it pause and presence of each of our hands and hearts. Passing it around to each relative of the Weaver Clan was a moment of acknowledgement; an acknowledgement of other women who knew what it took to birth myth into form. We Oh'd and Awe'd and cherished and cradled and celebrated it's birth. Honoring and acknowledging the journey. The circle also made room for the miscarriages, hardships and darker moments. One week, amongst the stories, one stood out to me of a woman who had been knitting for weeks preparing for her knit birth. As she stood up to show and tell within the circle of doulas, she held up her knit with grief and dissatisfaction of what she had created and ripped out every stitch of her hard labor.

During one circle, each of us shared where we learned to kit, when we knit for ourselves or others, and why. The majority of 10+ women were knitting for someone else and rarely knit for themselves. Many had fond memories of learning from their grandmothers before the age of 8. Many self taught with support from other women. A theme which stood out was that many women, including myself give and give and give to others with seemingly limitless Mother Earth resources, much of the time unacknowledged or underappreciated. Many of us learning to receive the gift of our own love wrapped around us like a sweater. Conditioned to be selfless otherwise judged as selfish or unproductive. "If I am knitting for myself I feel I am wasting my time, so I knit for everyone else," one divulged. How dare we think for ourselves or of ourselves. An old story we've been fed on repeat.

"I knitted these beautiful afghans for a neighbor. She said thanks and immediately threw them in the back of the car for her muddy dogs to lay on," one woman expressed.

A rumbling undertone of shock, empathy, I-can-relates and fury filled the circle. We kept knitting.

In a world where we are told to over produce, overwork, overdue and gain more as a sense of worth and success, just the act of trying to knit, sometimes starting over and over again, is activism. By knitting, weaving, sewing, creating, expressing our truth, we are immersing ourselves in the language of unconditional love and community, sometimes underground, saying yes to weaving the wisdom of togetherness and knitting ourselves back together again.

I submerged into this sacred soup every week but one for 2 months until leaving on Winter Solstice; sharing my sweater in the last show and tell on my birthday. A re-birth indeed ✔️

Suddenly, it hit me. I knew why I was there, knitting a sweater for myself...

Since parting over a year ago, I have retraced my steps in an attempt to bring closure to all of my loose ends. All of the lost parts of me I abandoned in the arms of others who were not capable of holding my heart. An excavation and resurrection of the broken parts or dreams I left hanging with past lovers, partners, friends and family... reuniting them with myself and the earth.

I set out on a walkabout, returning to every place which held a memory or dream with someone else, including places I had dreamed of going but put off. Experiences and things I had only done in partnership, but never for or by myself. Where I was too afraid to acknowledge my own dreams, where I gave away my joy jealousy rage grief pleasure fears, where I had held onto a dream of home with my last lover, I scooped up and held each part gently to my heart. Together we walked slowly up humbling mountains, wandered off trail through open pastures and hidden valleys, shared our story aloud with the birch, cedar and white pine, sat and prayed by familiar streams, cleansed into every river, seaside and lake we met, read books by the company of fire, foraged for wild rose hips and hawthorn, apples and mushrooms, leaving offerings in exchange for new memories.

We were repairing our relationship. Reweaving trust.

Carefully, prayerfully and wildly, not always gracefully, I gathered each frayed, cut, loosened or bare thread, re-membering myself back together again.

Knitting a sweater for myself was an act of reclaiming wholeness and returning to belonging.

A way of celebrating and cherishing my path and each person I crossed paths with, even if it was a painful one. To shed the people and patterns that do not serve the next chapters of my story.

Shearing my old coat and shedding other peoples stories that were not mine to carry. Liberating the wild bits of me tethered to the past. Forgiving myself for taming my truth or trimming any parts of me I was meant to face. Forgiving those who have left a scar. Forgiving myself for allowing it.

Like my story, my sweater is unique; wild and untamed, yet nurturing and beautiful. Amongst the mistakes, trials and errors... it fits me just right. There are loose bits intended to be snug, tight bits intended to be loose. A random blackish thread making an entire circumference around my ribs. A sleeve longer than the other. A clumpy patch where my yarn ran out and I had to spit in the palm of my hand, rubbing the two ends to felt them together. There were moments I knit with the fire and candlelight listening to the ambient waves of Lake Superior. Moments I knit in the stillness of the snow. Moments I wanted to give up, moments I couldn't stop, moments I couldn't even think about knitting, moments I knit alone and moments I knit with others, moments I just talked about knitting and moments I wondered if I would ever be finished. Moments I cried and moments I couldn't stop laughing. Moments I knit in the wild and moments I knit in the comforts of home. Moments I wanted to start all over again and moments I loved it just as it was. Moments it distracted me from heartache and other times was enveloped with peace and contentment. My story lives and breaths in this fabric.

As I sat here in this tapestry of women, wearing the first sweater I've ever made, my story of heartbreak, breakdown and breakthrough is now a soft cocoon for my newborn skin to snuggle into.

A cozy nest, stitched together with my own hands.

My own story I can wear proud.

Little did I know, when I set out to write here, I would be knitting my story into a sweater.

Perfectly imperfect.

A sweater to hold all of what makes me whole.

Stretched across many places I call home.

Tells my story to wholeness.