It's 5:20 AM!, and I've been awake for well over an hour now. I laid in bed for almost 40 minutes, trying to go back to sleep, but to no avail. My mind was whirling with thoughts, composing them, unwinding words from skeins of memory and perception, hoping that I would even be able to find them to explore and ravel later, these prose lacking cohesive meaning. I deliberated over whether or not to risk waking baby S, whether to get up and write them out, lest they disappear with my consciousness if I sleep- elusive and so easily lost they are, like grasping at wind, or trying to hold onto light. I was wishing that I had one of those writer's pens with a light, but wondering would that even work, without waking S and Chris, both obliviously snoozing on either side of me... and so, as the thoughts piled and sleeping I was not, I decided to climb out of bed at this totally crazy hour and write... since the words were still piling and I was too entangled to rest.

Last night, as I was putting baby S to sleep, I remembered that I had a bag on the table where I'd left it this afternoon, with a roll of deep, forest green wool yarn in it, and smooth, wooden needles looped with the beginning rows of a scarf that I'm knitting. In the same instant I realized that I wanted to knit (just really felt like doing it- right then, curious.), but I knew that it was late, and baby S probably wasn't going to let me get up and leave from nursing her to do anything- I tried anyways. Nope, didn't work. Heh. So, I laid there, falling asleep, and wishing that I could get up and knit, because I can.

That's right, I can! My dear friend Christine, accomplished knitter and wonderful teacher that she is, showed me (again, only it was my daughter T who showed me how the first time- earlier this year) how to cast-on, and helped me to figure out what I was doing wrong before, that had been bringing me so much frustration and eventually caused me to give up entirely for the greater part of last year (thus the having forgotten even how to cast-on and having to start over from the beginning part). It would be too technical and hard (for me) to try and explain what exactly I was doing wrong, but suffice it to say, that T will also benefit from my lesson yesterday, as she was having the same problem with her own knitting, which I'd inadvertently picked up. But now, finally, I've got it, and knitting is fun!

Somehow, as I lay there in bed last night, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, it occurred to me that knitting is a bit like writing... but I don't know if I shall be able to do the epiphany justice with my written words here, as it was a visual realization.  Case in point though.

I felt saw how the words I was formulating into strands of meaningful thoughts were like yarn I was pulling from a ball of potential, twisted threads of yet disorganized, shapeless promise, rich in texture, and brilliant in their hue. Every word that I could stitch with precision was one more link in a chain of conceptualization that would eventually be a complete thought piece. If I could only stitch one to the next, and to the next, and to the next... pulling and pushing them from the skein of memories, meanings, questions wound by daily living and nestled restlessly, yet unformed, waiting within my subconsciousness, dependent upon the crafter's hand, the writer's pen, to pluck them, to bring the thread of insight through the loop of consciousness and incoorperate it into a pattern of understanding, maybe even a humble garment of wisdom to be worn eventually, with a pattern worthy of sharing that someone else might want to learn from and follow, someday.

I found the analogy fascinating, and had to get the beginnings of it out... as I'm sure there's more there that I'm not seeing yet, amateur writer and newbie knitter that I am, both. These ruminations remind me of one of my favorite quotes concerning writing,

There are a thousand thoughts lying within a man that he does not know till he takes up a pen to write.

~ William Makepeace Thackeray

And along those lines, certainly there must be a thousand pieces lying within a woman that she does not know till she takes up a needle to knit, or a brush to paint, or...

Truly, creativity is soul-food, satisfying in all its varying forms. I've always wanted to be an artist when I grow up. And maybe I am becoming one after all... as I learn what it truly means to be an artist... it is to observe with care, and then to create with intent. The longer I live, and the more I learn by doing, the more I'm realizing that art is living, and learning to see the spectacular in the commonplace, growing, nurturing, giving attentiveness to detail, and forming with purpose; be it a child's willfulness and imagination, a poem, a scarf, an orderly home, a healthy meal, or clay.

These creations are, or can should be, culminations of us, our efforts, careful offerings to the Lord as well as to those around us. The eternal power of creativity found residing within those hidden, quiet moments of communion with the Almighty , gifted to us in our likeness toward our Maker, savored and realized in humble stitches, intuitive strokes, home-made teas, gardens tended, love made, children's drawings displayed, and choice words in poetry read aloud... or encompassing silence of dreams untold.

Yes indeed, I like knitting, it's somehow like writing. Writing is like knitting... words framed and knit together in such a way that they may be seen, felt, and worn... thoughts that unless written, realized and shared, would have no warmth or life to offer, like that ball of yarn which is not yet a scarf that my boy can wear, but everything necessary to make one... if only I will give it my time, and concerted effort, one stitch at a time.

I don't know if my thoughts are lost in translation here, but I certainly feel accomplished to have risen with the morning and put them in print. Yes, I do believe that one could even go so far as to say that so much in life that's worth having, knowing and doing, is like knitting... yarn ravelled into garments, wisdom knitted from a life lived, words fitted together and mounted upon a page like gems... Counting of the days... like stitches in a tapestry woven, that we may gain a heart of wisdom, know His pattern for our lives...

So, should can I go back to sleep now, or should I knit? Or write more? hehe. Chris is getting up now, the coffee/teeccino is on... baby S is still sleeping. Looks like rain outside, with a little thunder. Mmmmmm-hm, a good day has begun. If only I didn't have to go grocery shopping, which means the dreaded walmart (uggh.). *sighs* Aaaah well, that's later, and I always like going to the salvage store too, to see what treasures I might find cheap there.

You see what happens here? I write a few posts, and then it's like I've turned on the tap or something, the thoughts keep flowing. Yes, there's much more, this is merely an aside to the swirling thoughts that whirled about in my sleepy brain last night and rudely awakened me this morning- mere asides, always seems to be the bloggable thoughts, the outer strings I guess, to follow my own analogy out. At least my journal pages are filling, even as I'm tiring of my own wordy self now. Funny how that works, the words seeming to come all at once, or not at all. At least now, when I can't write, I can knit...

*Update Today*

It is a perfectly rainy, thunderous day outside, which makes for a cozy, special time inside. T just finished making a new peanut butter/birdseed birdfeeder on a giant pinecone, we've sweet potatoes with EVO and sea salt baking in the oven, and a double batch of wholegrain wheat bread dough mixing (plenty for cinnamon rolls!). Grocery shopping has been cancelled for now. Chris got off work early, due to the rain, and has volunteered to get groceries, what a guy! Baby S is napping now, and I thought that I would be too, but I'm having too much fun knitting with T, between sipping hot tea and reading snippets of The Laurel's Kitchen Bread Book, while N strums chords on his guitar.

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