The Olympic Games are truly magical. Every four years, the best athletes in the world come together to show us what hard work and passion look like. Some of them are familiar faces who resurface in our collective consciousness after four years of ambition, hard work, and injuries. Then, there are the surprises, the unknowns, the upstarts. The ones that no one expected would go that far.
I am amazed and inspired by all of these athletes, who sacrifice sleep, money, and time with friends and family in service of a singular goal. I think of how much easier it would have been simply to do something else. So much easier to stop when it got too intense. Imagine, setting your sights on a goal so distant, so unreal, so void of guarantees… and then, giving up nearly everything else for that slimmest of chances.
It makes me feel like a child again, makes me wonder at the possibilities. And, I don’t just mean I wonder at those athletes standing on the podium. I do marvel at them, at the elation and pride I hope they are feeling in those moments. But, sometimes, as I watch the media coverage, I wish that the Olympics didn’t have to be about superstars. One or two people always come away from the Games looming larger than life, wearing their success in the form of endorsement deals, camera-ready hair and smiles, and glossy magazine photo shoots. I often find myself thinking of the people who don’t make it to the podium. The snowboarder who falls on a trick she’s done a thousand times during practice. The figure skater who thinks his medal is a sure thing, only to watch someone else receive it. I equally love the athletes who lose gracefully, and the ones who don’t. I love the ones who never dreamt they would get a medal, but are having the times of their lives. I love the ones who have that glint in their eye that means they’ve gotten a taste of the Games, that they’ll be back.
And, I think of the ones who dedicate their whole lives to an Olympic pursuit, and don’t get there at all, whether because of lack of resources, or injury, or simply because they couldn’t make the team. I am in awe that they reached for something so gleaming and rare, at all.
The Olympic Games are inspiring because they remind us of all the ordinary mortals who keep their dreams in sight, and who don’t hold anything back in their journey toward accomplishing them. These people - shall we call them fools? - number a thousand for every Lindsey Vonn and Shaun White. So, that’s why, at times, the Olympic coverage makes little sense (sometimes, even, makes me mad). When glamour shots of the snowboarders are shown on a mega-screen behind them as they prepare to compete, or when the athletes (female only, of course) feel the need to wear flawless makeup during their events, knowing that their images will be broadcast around the world, the media has missed the point. When coverage of women’s snowboarding means a video montage that includes showing the athletes in skimpy bikinis, complete with close-ups, well… then the media wasn’t even aiming for the point.
The point isn’t that these athletes are superheroes, or supermodels. The point is that that they’re just like us. They’re mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, siblings, and friends. They’re just regular people who decided that realizing their dreams was worth risking it all.
And, for that, I thank them. All of them. Because I, for one, am enthralled.
I know that one usually doesn’t go around lobbying for friends, but I have a compelling case to make.
You might not know this, Kristin, but you have been wooing me with your blog. After I read Graceling, I looked you up on the Internet because, well, that’s the first thing I do when I want to know more. And I happened upon your blog, where you proved to be witty and funny. Oh, so funny! Your blog makes me laugh. More surprising, though, sometimes your blog makes me cry. Especially when you post about how much you love the planet. And this post here. Oh, that one made me weep.
Hmm, I thought. Witty and funny and passionate and sensitive. A good combo. You blogged about books, and recommended some of your favorites. I picked up many of those, and your recommendations were wonderful! It’s a true friend, indeed, who puts books like this into my hands.
But, then, Kristin, oh then. Once you had piqued my interest, you started to blog about Buffy. And, Kristin, I was watching Buffy, too. For a while there, we were watching the same episodes. (I knew this because you would refer to your burgeoning love for a certain blonde vampire. My love, too, burgeoned.)
Just when it seems that all of this might have been a coincidence, that perhaps lots of people are reading YA and watching Buffy and loving Spike… then you write about watching the Olympics, and how much you love the Morgan Freeman Visa commercial with Dan Jansen. And, you know. It’s not that I’m saying that thousands of people aren’t watching the Olympics and weeping at that commercial right along with us. I’m just saying that you should be my friend. We could talk about books and drink tea and watch figure skating.
And, by the way, I’ll be looking for a character who bears a resemblance to Stephane Lambiel in your upcoming books. He has a very princely quality, eh?
For any of you who don’t know, Kristin Cashore is the author of Graceling and its companion book Fire, both of which have won numerous awards and been listed on the NYT bestseller list. She blogs at This Is My Secret.
My amazing mother-in-law gave me The Mother’s Almanac right before WInnie was born. It’s filled with useful advice about feeding, sleeping, diapering, playing, cooking… nuggets of wisdom that my tired eyes tried to take in during those early months. Fortunately, one item did stick to this used-up old flypaper that is my brain. Authors Kelly and Parsons suggest that mothers try to do one thing every day that “can’t be undone.”
I think of that suggestion often as I grit my teeth through another load of dishes or laundry, or another bout with the vacuum cleaner. Those dishes just get dirtied again, the clothes stained with marker and applesauce, the rugs appear - within hours, it seems - to be sprinkled with a crunchy coating of dirt and playdough. All these things come undone. And, then, so do I.
So when Winnie was about ten months old, I decided that I would spend my precious droplets of available time more conscientiously, focusing on things that couldn’t be undone. I made my peace with dirty carpets. The family acquired more socks and underwear, which doesn’t keep our clothes clean, but it allows for more time between trips to the laundromat. Here are some of the things that I’ve decided to focus on, in my little pursuit of happiness.
First and most of all, I’ve become a reader, even more so than I was before. Sometimes I can’t find the energy to do anything that requires physical activity - like, you know, standing up - so reading suits me perfectly. It rejuvenates me, gets me thinking, gives me something to look forward to, and makes me feel like I have some company on lonesome days.
I’ve committed myself to making time for yoga, even if I can only find time for one class each week. The physical and mental benefits are very real for me. However, what really gets me jazzed is when my teacher Carla demonstrates a pose that I think I could never, in a million years, not even after three weeks of daily yoga and meditation on a beach in Bali, accomplish. And, then, I try it. And I do it. (Or, at least, my body sort of flails around with my limbs going in the general direction they’re supposed to.) And then, I can’t stop smiling.
Really, learning how to do anything at all, especially something that once seemed intimidating or challenging, makes me stand up straighter and gives me something to crow about. I’ll be posting about some of these new skills I’ve got in my toolbox, from knitting hats to making croutons.
My friend Sara helped me to remember how essential and nourishing a good talk with a friend can be. The best kind of talks happen in person, over a beer, and without having to stop every few minutes to say, “Don’t touch that PLEASE!” An honest share-fest with a friend can keep me going for a long time, like a bowl of oatmeal. It’s the kind of thing that too easily gets de-prioritized. I need to remember that carving out the time is so worth it. Perhaps I should get a tattoo, to remind myself.
When I was a kid, my mom used to tell me stories of how her dad - my Dede - would take her and her brothers into the city for a lunch date and a special trip to the bookstore. “We’re making memories,” he would say, signaling them all to do just that - to notice, to make the event special. Lately, I find myself trying to do this in my life. A trip to the library, a ride on the bus… anything can be an occasion if we sit up and look around, noticing what makes it special and, even, joyful.
Some days, I don’t have time or energy to knit, or to write, or to even hold up my end of a coherent conversation. Some days feel so full of “to-dos” that I don’t feel I’m really doing anything. On those days, I challenge myself to be aware of my surroundings as I walk. Regardless of where I’m going, I wrestle my focus away from my destination and take note of the steps I’m taking. I take deep breaths of air and notice its temperature as it travels down my windpipe, as it brushes on my skin. I reach my feet out as far as I can to grab hold of the earth, then push it behind me before once again lifting each foot so that it hangs, for just one moment, in the sky. Those steps, they’re almost like leaps. At the end of those days, when I think back over what I’ve done, at least I have that.
The Newbery Awards were announced just a couple of weeks ago, and The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate by Jacqueline Kelly was named as a Newbery Honor book. I’d already intended to read it, despite the fact that there is nary a mention of vampires, secret anarchist districts, or, even, romance. However, it is a Young Adult book, it’s historical fiction (set in one of my favorite time periods - just on the cusp of the 20th century), and the protagonist is a girl. So, it had a lot going for it in terms of my ARE (Anticipated Reading Enjoyment and - yes! - I just made up that silly acronym).
Turns out there was a bit of romance, just not the kind of romance I’d grown accustomed to reading about in YA novels. Eleven-year-old Calpurnia - Callie - falls in love plenty in this book. She falls in love with micro-organisms. She falls in love with grasshoppers. With a plant called hairy vetch. With the whole natural world, in fact. And Callie falls in love with her grandfather.
It’s this romance, between granddaughter and grandfather, that is so moving, and reminds me that we find what we need in unexpected places, but we do find it. In her grandfather, an eccentric, intimidating recluse, Callie finds a much-needed teacher. He opens her eyes to the scientific method and to the wonders around her. He gives her the controversial book The Origin of Species by a scientist named Charles Darwin. Callie’s grandfather has lived enough of his own life to see her for who she is, without needing her to fulfill his expectations of her.
Even though she is only eleven, Callie chafes against the constraints placed on girls of her time and, particularly, in her socially important family. Why should she, and not her brothers, have to spend precious hours learning to cook and knit and sew, when there are discoveries to be made with microscope and net? Why should she face the prospect of “coming out,” being shopped around to potential husbands just so she can have a life like her mother has, when she has a mind that longs to puzzle over scientific questions at the University? And, while she has plenty of cause to revolt against the constraints, she feels conflicted because she also loves the instruments of her constraint - loves her mother, loves her home.
In the end, the book seems to me to be about discoveries. Callie lives in a time in which the many important discoveries were an exciting indication of progress and industry. She and her Grandaddy make plenty of discoveries of their own, some scientific and some personal. And Callie’s family - in particular, her mother - is on the verge of discovering Callie, just as I did. Discovering the smart, confused, frustrated, angry, and jubilant girl that she is was a joy for me. Callie is about as “real girl” as it gets.
If I were still teaching 5th grade, I’d read this book to my class. Since I’m not, I’ll simply recommend it for girls in 5th grade or older. Plus, it’d be a really nice addition to my recommendations for mother-daughter book clubs on Flashlight Worthy Book Recommendations.
Ask any teacher or literacy expert — reading with (and to) your kids is the best way to guide them into a life of reading on their own. But we don’t just read to our kids to create literate people. We read with our kids to create a language with which to talk and think about life.
I know I don’t look like the destructive type, but I once totaled my husband’s nativity set.
Well, I didn’t destroy it personally, but I did call in some hired muscle in the form of a disturbed dog. When the job was done and the wise men’s dismembered bodies were strewn around the kitchen floor, I secretly did a jig.
I celebrate Christmas, but you won’t find a nativity scene at my house. It’s not because I’m so private about my religion, or because Banana Republic and Zales have killed my spirituality with their ubiquitous marketing campaigns. In all honesty, I believe in God, and I love the story of Jesus’ birth.
But I keep it quiet. Because, let’s face it, it’s just not cool to dig God.
I recently read the wonderful book Marcelo in the Real World by Francisco X. Stork, about a boy named Marcelo with a diagnosis that lies somewhere on the mild end of the autism spectrum. Marcelo has managed to create a world for himself that is comfortable and familiar. He goes to a special school, lives in his tree house, works with horses, delves into religious pursuits, and retreats to his “internal music” whenever life gets to be too much for him. Then, one summer, his father demands that Marcelo enter the “real world,” which translates into taking a job in the mailroom at his father’s law firm. Marcelo’s eyes are opened in some alarming ways, and seeing the real world - our world - through Marcelo’s frank and naive gaze is a little uncomfortable for the reader, because it’s so true.
In one particularly interesting scene, Marcelo and his dad are traveling on the commuter rail together for Marcelo’s first day at the law firm. To calm his nerves, Marcelo takes out his rosary and begins to pray quietly. His father calmly explains that praying is not appropriate public behavior. It’s just not done. I was thinking that the dad was a real jerk, and then I realized: if he’s a jerk, so am I. The dad is right. We live in a secular world, and there are rules we must follow to succeed. In general, people who are considered successful don’t make a fuss about their faith.
I don’t have any need to evanglize, but I don’t want to hide an aspect of myself that is becoming increasingly important to me. It’s hard to imagine feeling comfortable even mentioning prayer, church, or God in a group of my peers, the vast majority of whom do not practice religion. It’s not comfortable to admit it, but even though I’m all “grown up,” I still want to fit in. Shouldn’t I have outgrown this feeling by now?
Acknowledging faith in God makes me feel vulnerable, so I resist. I’ve been too embarrassed to be enthusiastic about religion or, really, about anything that makes me seem less than strong, less than self-sufficient. It’s the same way I used to feel about therapy Getting over that was a necessary step in helping my marriage thrive, and I’m so grateful that I did.
It’s scary to admit to believing in something that’s invisible, or to get help when you need it, or to build a life around loving someone else. It’s scary to need anything, period. People might laugh or, worse, judge me.
Seems a bit late, but I’m finally realizing what people mean when they say, “live your life for you.” My self-consciousness has gotten me nothing, except a bubble of protection from the mockery that I fear. Yet, how many things has that self-consciousness cost me?
I knew it would happen someday. Surely every parent must deal with a situation in which a child says something so dreadful that there is no appropriate response. My daughter Winnie, at nineteen months old, uttered the words that I had particularly dreaded:
“I look PRETTY!!”
I froze, my mind already in denial, already telling itself that I had misunderstood her squeal. But, no, the words were clear enough. And, if there was any question, there she was, twirling around the living room, admiring the ruffles on her new dress. The dress itself was a gift from a relative, and it was an adorably girly concoction of flounces and sparkles. The kind of thing that I, her mother, would never have bought for her.
No sooner was the dress over her head than Win began a series of spins that would have made any prima ballerina proud. ”I LOOK PRETTY!!” she howled again.
I wondered, how should I respond? I considered something like, “Uh-huh” or “Yup,” but those seemed like empty responses that wouldn’t win me many points on the parenting scorecard in my mind. What I needed was an enthusiastic response that showed her that pretty was not the point, that pretty is a label that limits and oppresses. I wanted my daughter to see that being preoccupied with pretty was a slippery slope that would only lead to hours of primping and preening that would be better spent, you know, reading the Constitution or graduating from med school. This was a teachable moment, and I had to grasp it.
So, I looked her square in her glowing, expectant little face. I mustered all my maternal wisdom, and I said brightly, “You look… ready for adventure!”
Winnie faltered. Clearly, she didn’t understand my response, and now we were both confused. The truth is, on most days she is ready for adventure, dressed in tees, pants, and rugged little boots. On this day, though, she didn’t look ready for anything more adventurous than high tea. She looked, well, pretty.
I realized in that moment, that I have a pretty messed up relationship with “pretty.” We modern gals want to be pretty, but we don’t want to seem as though we’re putting much thought into it. We’d much rather be known for our smarts and our accomplishments (we’d rather by Elizabeth than Jane Bennet, but Elizabeth was no slouch in the looks department). When we become mothers, it becomes a stickier situation. I want my daughter to be attractive - because attractive matters, no matter how much I wish it wouldn’t - but I don’t want her to have to strive for it. I want her to be who she is, and to be immune to influences that distract her from the important stuff, insisting that skinny jeans or new lip gloss will help her measure up to the other girls. How can I stifle those influences when I fear that I myself am one, with the makeup-wearing example I set? And, if she tends toward ruffles, how do I know whether that’s who she is or who she has become as a result of advertising and social pressure?
Even on blogs like Lisa Belkin’s Motherlode, parents debate whether to allow their daughters to play with pink toys. Pink?! As if pink could make the difference between whether your daughter grows up to be a scientist or a cheerleader? A color doesn’t have that kind of power, but obviously pink signifies more than just a color.
Here are the facts as I know them. My daughter loves books and trucks. And she also has a keen eye for all things sparkly and ruffly. I know that I want her to feel she is pretty, and to deeply know that pretty is not everything she is. I want her to know that it’s OK to delight in ruffles, but that true prettiness comes from a big heart, laughter, wisdom, a bright mind.
It’s a minefield of girliness out there, and I know it won’t stop coming just because I wish it would. How about you? How do you feel about the pressure (or assumption) that girls love dresses and fairy wings? Should we dissuade young girls from all things pink or feminine? How can we celebrate all the things that women can rightly be and enjoy, including pink, while also working against society’s limiting concept of girlhood?
This evening, as I was making dinner, Win wrestled with a package that had arrived in the mail. She was determined to open it, and she tore and pulled until it began to give. She was grunting and straining, but she didn’t ask me for help. Then, as the package opened, she yelled, “I’m strong!” I was so glad to be able to agree, unequivocally, with that.
It’s no secret that I’m a Twilight fan. The books allowed me to joyfully indulge in cheesy, fluffy escapist fantasy. And the movies are no different. The first movie in the Twilight “saga” was enjoyable the same way campy b-movies are enjoyable. The effects were bad, the makeup was bad, the script was REALLY bad (er…. “spider monkey?”). It was low budget, and it showed. I giggled my way through it.
This time around, the producers understood what they had in hand: a money machine. So, they threw a little budget at it, changed the director and… voila! New Moon is a very different kind of movie. The special effects are great, especially when the werewolves come on the scene, and the dialogue is actually funny in parts. I mean, on purpose.
Unfortunately, no amount of budget or talent can change one element about the book/movie, an element that will plague the whole series like an itchy nose on a date. The only thing holding this story back from crossing into awesome territory is this: Bella is a freakin’ annoying character.
The title of the movie refers to a new romantic presence in Bella’s life: her friend Jacob Black, a member of the local Native American tribe who, according to legend, are descendants of werewolves. Well, it turns out that, once again, the legends contain more truth than fiction. Jacob becomes a member of the werewolf pack, a group of young men who have inherited the ability to turn into wolves and hunt – what else? - vampires. With Edward gone - claiming not to love Bella, but really leaving because he thinks that he poses too much of a danger to her - Bella turns to Jacob for comfort, companionship, and safety. Of course, his feelings develop romantically and she is confused. Should she stay loyal to her one true love, even in his absence? Should she try to love Jake, for all his wonderful abs – er, I mean – qualities?
Kristen Stewart told The New York Times that she plays her role by pretending that Edward has a real human affliction, like a heroine addiction, rather than that he is a vampire. So, if we follow that logic, this is a story about a girl who is in love with a heroine addict. While tortured boys do have a certain appeal, her devotion to him is completely – and dangerously – romanticized. He’s hot, his attentions make her feel special, but he also has a barely contained impulse to kill her to drink her blood. While that adds a certain level of tension to the story, it makes one wonder about the self-worth this girl has when her boyfriend is the dude who, in response to the question “How can you stand to be this close to her?” responds through clenched jaw, “It’s not without difficulty.”
Add to the list of evidence for her lack of self-esteem, the ultimate red flag: she’s suicidal. She goes for rides with strange, sketchy guys, she dives off cliffs, she crashes her motorcycle, then insists, “I want to go again,” while bleeding from the head. And all because she craves the way Edward somberly appears to her when her life is in danger, wagging a finger in his fatherly way.
Truthfully, there’s no need to wonder about her self-worth. I know it’s zero. Bella tells us in so many words in the climactic scene. After tracking Edward to Italy, she flings herself upon his bare, pale, shimmery chest in order to stop him from exposing himself in a crowded square, then tells him that he can leave her without guilt. She whines, “[Your loving me] didn’t make any sense… I’m nothing.”
When Bella says that there’s nothing left after Edward leaves, she’s kind of right. But that’s not because that’s how love is. That’s because she focused on him to the exclusion of everything else, especially herself. I shudder to think of the young women who might think that it’s normal - and even a sign of ultimate love - to feel that nothing is left when the guy is gone.
Dear, dear Bella. This story does not have a happy ending for me. This is sad. Ending up in a relationship in which you revere and idolize your boyfriend while telling yourself that you aren’t worthy of his affection is not healthy or romantic. Go be with your friend Jake because, while he is also irrationally obsessed with protecting you from harm while he could be doing something more fun, he at least wants to hear what you have to say and wants you to lead your own life. Or, better yet, develop a hobby OF YOUR OWN. Go out with some of your friends. They are very nice and cute. And, amazingly enough, they will still give you the time of day after you wasted three months of your senior year sitting at a table by yourself and staring into space.
Some would argue that a character from a movie need not be a role model for girls and, to that, I say, “Thank goodness.” But I don’t think anyone can deny that there are many girls out there who think Edward Cullen is just peachy and that a boy who watches you sleep, tells you what to do, and leaves you out of the decisions concerning your own life is the boy of their dreams. And, to them, I say “That’s gonna get old fast. ’Specially when said controlling fella is immortal.”
I leave you with a very funny Twilight-inspired song that I found on Jezebel.com:
I wrote this post for the Girls Leadership Institute’s blog Woosh! Check it out already.
It was late at night. Usually I would have been reading a book. But, that wasn’t exactly what I wanted. I wanted to be alone with myself, not immersed in a world with other characters. I needed to be fully present to my thoughts and feelings, not escape them.
I had some thinking to do. I decided to knit.
I’ve been wondering what the purpose of my knitting might be. Years ago, it would simply have been a thrifty skill to have. I would have knit sweaters, scarves, blankets, hats, and gloves for my family and friends. I could even rip the stitches out of one piece after it’s usefulness was gone - say, after a child had outgrown it - and make it into something new. Talk about resourcefulness!
But, that’s not what I do. Nor is it what any knitter I know does. Knitters these days mostly knit as a hobby. They do it to express their crafty sides. For the satisfaction - and novelty - of making something with their own fingers instead of buying it in a store. Generations ago, it would have been unremarkable. Possibly, it would even have been embarrassing to wear hand-knit clothing. Now, it’s a practice that’s been adopted by hipsters. Women with comfortable lives and time on their hands. Women, I guess, like me.
There are lots of other things I could be doing with my time. I could cook - that’s very useful, and it’s also truly thrifty. I could be writing, which is something that I love and it’s also a way for me to earn some money. I could be reading, napping, catching up with friends, or any number of other errands that are on my list.
So, why am I knitting?
The answer (or, one of them) came to me that night as I lay on the couch in the middle of a quiet night. My fingers automatically completed the repetitious movements, my eyes saw the yarn but also looked past it. It felt a little like a meditation, like what I imagine a rosary might be like, if I ever did a rosary. I had some troubling thoughts, working out what I felt about big changes that are coming down the road in my life. As I knit, I was reminded - by row after row of purposeful knots - that sometimes we must allow for, even create, knots in order to make sense of our lives. In other words, sometimes things have to get pretty messy before we can clean them up.
In fact, knitting is a little like writing this blog. I’ve been questioning why I’m sending these little projects out into the hinterland of the Internet, out where few people will ever come across them. I’m realizing that, even if no one reads these meditations of mine, they are still useful, if only for me. I write to know what I think.*
Which, I suppose, is the same reason I knit.
*I’d love to accept credit for this sentiment. But, it was Auden who said something like this and many writers whom I admire have echoed and paraphrased it.
My paternal grandmother was my first knitting teacher. The lesson came as a surprise, since I had never seen my grandma knitting before that day, nor did I again. There were no gifts of hand-made sweaters or hats. Despite her apparent lack of regular practice, the stitches she showed me that day were decisive and sure. Grandma cast on a needleful of stitches and knit the first couple of rows for me. Armfuls of silver c-shaped bangles - the kind that you had to twist onto your wrist, mindful not to dig the end into the soft tendons on the underside of your arm – clinked softly while she worked. An uncharacteristically fancy sapphire bracelet sparkled among the chunky silver. My grandfather had given the sapphires to her one Christmas. Grandma had cried when she opened it, but the bracelet did not receive any special treatment or status. Maybe she didn’t believe in saving nice jewelry for special occasions. Maybe, at her age, she didn’t believe in saving things, period.
My dad has three brothers and one sister, so I have lots of cousins. We are not a matching set. My siblings and I are sleek and dark, while our cousins have fair hair and skin, light eyes that twinkle. When the families got together at the holidays, we cousins jangled and sparkled like those bracelets. We played and shouted, delighted by the sheer volume that we could create. We were awed and intimidated by our grandmother, the woman at the helm of it all. We could almost always find grandma installed in her upholstered armchair. A teetering pile of crosswords and pens sat within her reach. She frequently buried her nose in one, taking advantage of a few moments of idleness in the midst of the day.
The day of the knitting lesson, Grandma came to my house for a visit, an occurrence so unusual that I only remember it happening that one time. In the absence of any cousins, all of her attention was on me. Well, on me and the knitting. Maybe that was why she brought the needles out that day; it gave us something to focus on that was not each other, as unaccustomed as we would have been to that. We talked about shoes. Grandma eyed my feet – already a size 7 at nine years old – and said she hoped I hadn’t inherited hers, because finding shoes for a size nine and a half was a real pain in the neck.
At some point, she surrendered the needles to me, and I suppose I knit a bit, although I don’t remember it much. I didn’t knit again for many years, not until I was an adult and living in New York.
It was the Mets that got me knitting again, not sentimental feelings about that lesson with my Grandma. One summer, I watched almost every ball game, and needed something to do with my hands (baseball isn’t so much something one watches with complete attention as it is something one has in the background). So, I bought Knitting for Dummies and a pair of size eight needles. I planned a few ambitious projects, and even finished one or two. There was a bib and hat for a friend’s new baby, a scarf, a pair of fingerless gloves (a real coup!), and the back of a sweater for me that was doomed to a life without its corresponding parts. A t that point, my skill level reached a plateau. Making scarves bored me, but anything more advanced required time and effort I did not have. I stuffed my knitting bag onto a shelf, and left it for dead while I went on to other things.
I always told myself that I would pick it up again. So, now, years after abandoning that last project, I am starting a new one: a hat for Win. I’m not quite sure why I find the process of knitting so alluring. It’s an old-fashioned hobby, and the quaintness appeals to me, but it’s not a particularly thrifty way to obtain head wear, especially when you factor the cost of the yarn, the cost of my time, and the distinct possibility that the project won’t ever be completed. Or, at least, not while Win’s head still fits in the thing. My finished projects look quite rough (not beautiful like my sister Parry’s work). So, why don’t I give up the ghost and just buy Winnie a hat for $5 at Old Navy?
I don’t exactly know the answer to that question. While I ponder it, I’m going to keep knitting. The hat I’m making has – or, will have - purple and navy stripes and a pom-pom on the end. It’s ridiculously long, like an elf hat, and I’m fairly certain that none of the other kids on the playground will have one like it. Experience would indicate that this project won’t end well. Most of my projects don’t. But, I’m hopeful about this one, and I look forward to seeing Winnie wearing it. I think my knitting reflects substantial optimism on my part, actually. The odds are good that my effort will be in vain, but I still sit and work, needles clicking, while I talk, listen to music, think, watch tv, and even play board games. I enjoy the possibility that I might surprise myself.
Yes, that’s the important bit, I think: I might surprise myself. But, if I hold back from doing something that runs the risk of wasting my precious time, I won’t. After all, time’s not really precious, not any more than a string of sapphires. Certainly not too precious to spend on something a little frivolous. Maybe I inherited more than my feet from my grandma. I also have a decisive stitch, and the desire to use what I’ve got when I’ve got it.
The Olympic Games are truly magical. Every four years, the best athletes in the world come together to show us what hard work and passion look like. Some of them are familiar faces who resurface in our collective consciousness after four years of ambition, hard work, and injuries. Then, there are the surprises, the unknowns, the upstarts. The ones that no one expected would go that far.
I know that one usually doesn’t go around lobbying for friends, but I have a compelling case to make.
right before WInnie was born. It’s filled with useful advice about feeding, sleeping, diapering, playing, cooking… nuggets of wisdom that my tired eyes tried to take in during those early months. Fortunately, one item did stick to this used-up old flypaper that is my brain. Authors Kelly and Parsons suggest that mothers try to do one thing every day that “can’t be undone.”
