One, two, three.
Double.
One, two, three.
Double.
I count stitches until the rhythm takes over and intuition reigns,
knowing when to lift two loops over my hook in place of one.
Tiny twists capture wandering thoughts,
pulling them gently back to my hands.
In meditation,
string becomes stitches,
stitches become rows.
A form takes shape,
like clay on a potter’s wheel.
I am a machine
and I am not a machine.
It is a hat
and it is not a hat.
It is not a hat. But also I LOVE YOUR HATS.
With you on this, as you know.So much knitted into what we make.