![]() ![]() All through our woods, that blue has been knitted a second time. When I pull it down to check if the nest had been a success, there, a thin filament of blue looping in the grassy bowl of emptiness. Nearing Solstice, as we move wood out of the woodshed, I discover a phoebe nest in the eaves. I’m a fool for loss, but there’s also beauty: sky on a partly sunny morning, light warming the winter garden, the ecology of being human with mouse, squirrel, sweater and winter. What was lost? Warmth, color, connection? What was gained? A nest, a coil of new meaning, some organic fiber woven into a home. Here was a piece of sky, now of earth, scattered by chance winds and the choices of wild creatures. What remained fell apart in my hands those warm mornings frayed in my fingertips. It had finally faded to the tired blue after storm. Like grief I suppose, eventually we weave it in, but invisibly.Īround Thanksgiving, I found what remained of the sweater in the ravine below our house. A squirrels’ nest woven blue into the cross-hatch of high-tree debris? All through late fall, I found traces, a strand hooked in the wood pile, a filament caught in the window box, and once, what might have been a clump in a tree. When I dislodged an old clay pot, there, a blue tangle woven with dry leaves in a nest where a mouse or vole had kept warm. Later, while packing up the garden one rough-winded day, I caught sight of a blue strand. I studied the ground under the clothesline, scuffed through the garden, searching for the remnants. That swath of ultramarine had hung like a spirit friendship with a woman I never knew, but I did know because of her skill and her daughter’s gift. Relief-some thing had taken it at last, and loss-all over again. I can’t articulate the contradictions I felt. I missed my father, my friends more than I could say. I looked at it every morning I came to the porch, coffee in hand. The blue never faded, and with the first snows, it shone against the white of a thin new snow. ![]() That sacre bleu hung all summer and early fall no waxwings. Was that the spring I lost two more friends: one, heart attack another, cerebral hemorrhage?įinally, I took the blue into my arms, apologized to Mimi’s mother, and threw it over the back clothesline hoping maybe the Waxwings would raid it they like string and single strands of stuff. I mended it and wore it two more winters, but the yarn had weakened. The winter after I lost my father, I pulled the sweater off the shelf, shook it out, and was shocked and saddened to find moths had invaded. That blue, strongest just before real dark fell. When I wore it, I always looked to the sky for a match, and found it finally in those clear-hued December evenings. The warmth and color never faded I could rely on it when things were unreliable. Each winter, I anticipated pulling it out of storage on the coldest mornings of our Michigan darkness. Winter blue, dark sapphire blue, ah yes, Scandinavian blue. And blue, a stunning, singing, deep song. Open stitches, soft wool, equally soft shape-that loose pullover style meant for cuddling. When her mother died, Mimi-who had gone to be with her-brought it back, and gave it to me. Not just any blue sweater but one that had been knitted by her mother in Denmark. They were the ones who knew what to do.Ī couple decades ago my dear friend Mimi gave me a blue sweater. No headers "Yarn Tree!" by knittinandnoodlin is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 ![]()
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