Weaving the Seasons Together

As I take my time weaving the ends of the bits of yarn into this baby outfit I’m knitting for a family friend, it reminds me of the garden so much. These two activities are some of the best ways I know how to care for myself. Let me explain.

Both these crafts busy my hands, each at a different time of year and thus inviting a different kind of attention. With my hands moving, my mind is free to flow and chill. And it’s really when my best ideas materialize. My memory is deeply tied to visual cues, so much so that every time I drive through this one intersection in south Minneapolis I can remember the password I set for my insurance company. When I need to remember it, I remember the billboard in the northeast corner, because that’s what I was looking at when I said the password for the first time. It’s weird, maybe, but it’s how my mind works. I digress, sort of.

These are the final strands of yarn I’ll putter with for probably six months or more. I am weaving hopes and dreams and the framework for the season ahead into this baby cardigan. I love how the seasons and crafts overlap and support one another in this way. The quiet of winter is where the garden really flourishes. This is why I crave knitting in winter, because not having the earth to put my hands into creates a massive crater in my heart. Life is unbearable when my hands are idle. Life is full of hope and beauty when my hands are working. My hands are already finding their way into soil and this passion will soon supersede the beloved and prized winter knitting needles.

As these knitted gifts take final shape, my garden is becoming in my mind. I work to remember the lessons of last summer: plant more zinnia randomly around the garden, not just framing in our original garden patio; ditch peanuts, because rodents; grow more sesame (where will they go?? they are a major landscape statement!); where will the tomatoes get rotated to this summer, and how will their placement impact the garden long garden views? (no blocking the patio view from the garden entrance at the top of the hill); will I be strong enough to take a year off cucumbers because of the fungal pressure we’ve had the past several years?

As I spend time mentally flying over the garden piecing it all together, my hands are pouring all my love and hope into this article of clothing. Soon, the tables will turn and my love will pour itself out all over the garden, and I’ll marvel at how it all mingles, erupts, produces, and nourishes me.

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