My grandmother's hands never stopped moving.
Whenever she sat down they reached automatically for needles and yarn. Conversations happened over the quiet clicking of her work. Stories emerged while stitches accumulated. The making was constant and unremarkable in the way that breathing is unremarkable.
I watched her for years without learning what she knew. The craft seemed old-fashioned to my younger self. Something from another era that had no place in the life I was building. I would be different. Modern. Unencumbered by domestic arts that seemed to belong to generations past.
It took me two decades to understand what I had dismissed. To feel the absence of something I never knew I needed. To finally pick up needles myself and discover what my grandmother had known all along.
The Hunger for Making
Something shifted culturally in recent years.
People who never considered themselves crafty started buying supplies. Waiting lists formed for knitting classes. Yarn shops that had struggled found themselves thriving. The pandemic accelerated trends that were already emerging but the hunger had been building long before lockdowns made it urgent.
I think we grew tired of consumption without creation. Of scrolling through endless content without producing anything ourselves. Of living entirely in our heads while our hands remained idle.
The digital world offers much but it cannot offer the satisfaction of making something tangible. Of watching raw materials transform into finished objects through your own effort. Of holding something at the end that did not exist at the beginning.
Knitting answers this hunger in particular ways. The repetitive motion calms anxious minds. The slow progress teaches patience. The finished object provides evidence that time spent was not wasted. You cannot rush the process. You cannot skip steps. You can only show up and do the work stitch by stitch.
I came to knitting seeking distraction from screens. I found something closer to meditation. The rhythm of the needles created a container for thinking that differed from any other state I knew. Present but not striving. Focused but not stressed. Occupied in ways that left room for peace.
Starting From Zero
I knew nothing when I began.
The terminology alone seemed designed to confuse. Cast on. Bind off. Knit two together. Yarn over. Each phrase represented techniques I could not visualise until someone showed me with actual yarn in actual hands.
Online tutorials helped but only to a point. The dimensionality of the craft resisted flat demonstration. I needed to feel how tension worked. To understand through my fingers what my eyes could not quite grasp.
My first projects were disasters. Scarves that widened unexpectedly as I accidentally added stitches. Swatches that puckered from inconsistent tension. The gap between what I imagined and what I produced felt insurmountable.
But something kept me returning. Partly stubbornness. Partly the glimpses of satisfaction when a row came out right. Partly the memory of my grandmother's hands and the desire to understand what they had known.
The learning curve eventually flattened. Muscle memory developed. The movements that required conscious attention became automatic. I could watch television while knitting. Carry on conversations. The craft had moved from my thinking mind into my body.
The Materials Matter
Yarn is not just yarn.
This discovery surprised me. I had assumed that one ball of yarn was essentially like another. Different colours perhaps. Different thicknesses. But fundamentally interchangeable.
Experience taught me otherwise. The fibre content affects everything. How the yarn feels in your hands. How it behaves on the needles. How the finished fabric drapes and wears and ages.
Wool has memory. It springs back. It forgives mistakes and blocks into shape. Cotton has weight. It hangs heavily and holds structure. Acrylic has durability. It withstands washing and wearing that natural fibres might not survive.
I became particular about materials as my skills improved. Not precious exactly. But be aware. The project I was making deserved yarn suited to its purpose. A baby blanket needed softness and washability. A winter hat needed warmth and resilience.
When I started exploring options for Paton yarns in Australia I discovered a heritage brand that my grandmother would have recognised. The same name that had likely passed through her hands decades earlier. Using these yarns felt like a connection across time. Continuity with makers who came before.
The quality of established yarn brands reflects generations of refinement. Fibres selected for specific purposes. Weights calibrated for particular projects. Colours that complement each other because someone thought carefully about palettes.
What the Making Teaches
Knitting is not just about the objects produced.
The practice teaches patience in ways that modern life otherwise resists. You cannot hurry a sweater into existence. You cannot optimise the process beyond the speed your hands can move. The timeline is the timeline. Fighting it only creates frustration.
This enforced patience has spilled into other areas of my life. I am slightly less impatient in queues. Slightly more tolerant of processes that take longer than I want. The needles taught me that some things cannot be rushed and that the rushing itself is often the problem.
The craft also teaches recovery from mistakes. Every knitter learns to recognise errors and fix them. To unknit rows when necessary. To accept imperfection when the fix would cost more than the flaw.
This too applies beyond the needles. The willingness to notice when something has gone wrong. The skill of backing up and trying again. The judgment about which mistakes matter and which can be left alone.
The Community of Makers
Knitting connects me to people I would not otherwise know.
Local knitting groups meet in coffee shops and libraries. Online communities share patterns and troubleshoot problems. The craft creates instant common ground between people who might share little else.
I have sat in circles with women decades older than me and decades younger. The age gaps that might create awkwardness in other settings dissolve when everyone is working on projects. The conversation flows around the clicking needles. Stories emerge that would not emerge otherwise.
This community carries knowledge that cannot be learned from books or videos. The tips passed between makers about which yarns pill and which block well. The shortcuts that experience reveals. The encouragement that keeps beginners going through the frustrating early stages.
My grandmother learned from her mother and aunts. I learned from YouTube and strangers in yarn shops. The methods differ but the transmission continues. Each generation teaches the next something about making that cannot be learned alone.
The Objects and Their Meanings
I have given away most of what I have made.
Hats for new babies. Scarves for friends facing cold winters. Blankets for people I love who are going through difficult times. The objects carry something that purchased gifts cannot match.
Not superiority exactly. A hand-knit scarf is not necessarily warmer or more beautiful than one bought from a shop. But it carries time. Hours of attention directed toward the person who will receive it. The gift is not just the object but the making of it.
Recipients seem to sense this. They receive hand-knit items differently than other presents. With more care somehow. With awareness that something was given beyond the physical object.
I think about my grandmother's blankets still folded in my closet. Made before I was born. Given without occasion. Kept through every move and life transition because getting rid of them felt impossible.
The Practice Continues
I knit most evenings now.
Not with the constant productivity my grandmother maintained. My output is modest. A few finished objects each year. Long stretches where projects sit untouched.
But the practice persists. The needles wait in their basket. The yarn accumulates in quantities that probably exceed what I will use in a lifetime. The making continues because stopping feels wrong somehow.
What my grandmother knew and what I am learning is that the making matters apart from what is made. The quiet rhythm. The moving hands. The connection to something older than our individual lives.
The thread runs backward through generations and forward into futures I cannot see. I hold it for my portion of time. Then I pass it on.
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