WHAT I’VE LEARNED FROM KNITTING SOCKS
or
Just Because I’m Going Around in Circles Doesn’t Mean I’m Not Getting Somewhere
A skilled therapist once told me that your life is shaped by the choices you make, but that every choice you make means giving up the thing you didn’t chose.
So it is with socks. If I use the variegated blue yarn for this pair of socks I can’t knit the white merino (unless I choose stripes). In knitting socks, as in so much else, nothing gets done till choices are made.
That includes the choice of pattern: plain, ribbed, textured, lace, anything but what I used on the last pair of socks I knit. Willingness to try new things sometimes diminishes as age increases, but I’ve learned that it’s easier to experiment on a smaller scale.
Then there’s choice of technique: toe up or cuff down? (I have even knit socks from side to side or seamed, but hey, I once ate a raw sea urchin in a Japanese restaurant too. Part of wisdom consists of coming to know yourself, and knowing which experiments are worth repeating.) I usually do the traditional cuff down, but I make it a point to go the other way once in a while. This and yoga class have taught me the value of flexibility.
The final choice before I cast on is my tools. I know there are knitters who craft their socks on various configurations of circular needles, and I know that some such knitters are as passionate about their preferred technique as a new convert about his religion. But personally I like double points.
The first couple of rounds do leave me fantasizing about having extra arms, like an Indian goddess. But as I struggle I will consider how typical of life this is: the beginning of any worthwhile project takes a bit more attention, a bit more patience, a gentler touch. And I know that once I get going I’ll develop a soothing rhythm in the switch from needle to needle, like the rhythm of a rocking chair. And that rhythm, for me, is conducive to thought.
As one-dimensional yarn stretched over four needles becomes a two-dimensional square, which in turn becomes a three-dimensional tube, I’ll have time to ponder the big questions: Who am I really? What’s the meaning of life? Why am I here? And how am I going to turn this heel that’s coming up?
Multiple knitters in multiple parts of the world have come up with multiple solutions to the problem of turning a right angle in a knit tube. There are heel flap heels, short row heels, afterthought heels, all so clever in construction that knitting one feels like working magic.
But however I choose to proceed, turning the heel, like most magic, requires a bit of attention from the magician. Thus I will not take the time to marvel at the brilliance of the knitter who first figured this procedure out. That will come later, once the heel is turned, when I’m back to knitting around in that soothing, lovely DP rhythm.
If I’ve started from the toe, it’ll be straight on to the bind off, whereas if I’ve started from the cuff, it’ll be onward till I reach the toe decreases.
Toes never seem as magical as heels but they’re just as necessary, just as steaming broccoli is less magical than baking bread but just as important nutritionally. So once the foot is long enough I’ll start to decrease, and once I’m down to a dozen or so stitches, I’ll arrange them on two needles and graft them together. A different rhythm from the knitting – through as if to knit, through as if to purl – but rhythm all the same.
The final step is to weave in the ends, and as I do, I’ll think about how there will be no loose ends when I’m done, no unconnected loops. Life consists of connections, from the synapses of my brain to the electrical circuit that powers the computer on which I’m typing. I’ll try the sock on. A spiral of those connected loops will encircle my foot. Life abounds in circles and spirals, from the cycle of the seasons to the orbits of the stars. I stand in the midst of a spinning universe, well-grounded in my hand knit sock.
Ah, but I have two feet, and I’d be better grounded with a sock on both of them. So I’ll start over again at the beginning and I’ll knit the second sock. Undoubtedly there is a metaphor or two to be drawn here too, something about persistence maybe, or about how much of life consists of repetition and continuity. I leave it to you to find it. Me, I’ve got to go knit.