Wrestling a Yak

Ouch. My hands hurt. I feel like I spent the night wrestling a yak.

I spent hours last night crocheting with what is coyly called "T-yarn" - yarn made by cutting old T-shirts into loops and linking them together. It always sounded like fun, and since the pile of discarded T-shirts in my closet has grown to resemble a lump the size of a hibernating yeti, I thought this would be a great way to recycle them all. So last night I pulled out my cutter and picked out a fun variety of colors, and went to work. Soon a pile of yellow, lime green, orange and white shirts bit the dust, and I ended up with what looked like a mountain of loops. I was ready to be creative. What fun!

OK, the first thing I noticed is that this is some SERIOUS yarn. This isn't meek little sock yarn. This is yarn with attitude, yarn that talks back when you work with it. And let me tell you, it brings new meaning to the expression "working with yarn". By the second row, the muscles in my shoulders (shoulders? when do you knit with your shoulders?) were beginning to mutter indignantly. Within half an hour my hands (especially my left hand, which I wrecked in a fall a few months ago) were crying for mercy. I started to wonder if I shouldn't take a break (say, for a year or two) and do some intensive bodybuilding.

As I lurched my way along, row by row, I began to notice an disturbing development. The stack of loops was disappearing at an alarming clip. The stuff was so thick, each loop made only about three stitches. Soon I was down to cutting up the sleeves. Then I tried knitting with the scraps, knotting and fretting about loose ends, and still my bath mat was about the size of a bath potholder. I found myself wondering if I could steal any of my husband's shirts from his dresser without him noticing. No, wait. He's still awake. Blast!

I admit it. I surrendered. At about midnight I unraveled the whole thing. Now I have about seven balls of yellow, lime green, orange and white T-yarn in a pile on the couch. They stare at me. They look so innocent. They're evil!

I refuse to be intimidated. I refuse to be bullied. I'll get you, T-yarn, if it's the last thing I do!

Maybe there's enough for a purse.

Poem: Turning the Heel

Turning the Heel by Heather Jerrie

Needles poised, she leans close to read yet again, frowning.
She looks again at her knitting, then at the instructions.
Laboriously she knits, stops, reads, knits, step by step.

Knit, but don't go to the end of the row. Turn.
(Huh? That can't be right. I still have stitches left!)
Just turn.
(Maybe the directions are wrong!)
Turn.
(Are you sure?)
Trust me.

OK, she sighs, and she turns the knitting around.

Now knit some more, and then turn.
(WHAT? I still have stitches left to go!)
Turn. Trust me, it will work out. Really!
(Well, OK...)
She turns again.

Row by row, she follows. Simply following directions, fumbling, trusting.
Before her eyes the stitches turn, change direction,
and form a new shape: a heel.
Like magic.

She holds the knitting up to the light and marvels.

There are times when we learn to be led,
to listen to the voice of someone who knows the way.
We take a hand and follow, stumbling, often unwilling,
unsure of the way.
and when we arrive, are told,
See?
Aren't you glad you listened?