I picked up my needles and yarn for the first time in nearly four months. I haven’t been feeling the urge to create in a while, but then again it’s not so easy when you’re living out of your car. The big bag of yarn is still buried somewhere behind the passenger seat, but earlier in the day I was able to recover a set of US 7 needles and a ball of grey mystery acrylic. And I did what I do best: I cast on a random number of stitches and started knitting row after row of garter stitch. I’ve missed this. The acrylic is really quite cheap, I can’t think of a single suitable project for it, but it doesn’t matter, I’m knitting again. It’s like taking up meditation again; I feel better.

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And here I am writing again. I didn’t realize until tonight that if I’m not knitting, I’m not writing either. Picking up the needles again felt like it dislodged a block in the system; knitting allows me to be active while still just sitting with my thoughts, I can examine them at leisure and let them percolate. For a while now, I’ve been running around being active in body but lazy in mental discipline, you can’t help it when most of your life is focused on survival. What are we going to eat today? Where are we going to sleep tonight? Are we even sleeping tonight? What new crisis is around the corner, and what can we do about it? When not focused on survival, we indulge in escapism, reading novels, watching movies, playing Magic with friends. But I have not taken much time to sit with my thoughts and consider them.

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Lover and I have traveled a fair bit the past four months, but tonight I find myself once more in a place of sentiment and comfort, a friend’s front porch where we have frequently sat and philosophized, and where once more we gather again. It was in this house that I last knit a stitch, and here I am again as I pick the needles up again. Life arranges itself in patterns, delicately shifting and morphing, but always circling back on itself, like a nautilus shell. And so it makes perfect sense that I am knitting and writing again; I missed all this, but I knew the desire and the drive would eventually come back to me.

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As I knit back and forth, the grey fabric grows between my fingers, soft from age but far from luxurious. I rip out and begin again with a different number of stitches; I kind of want to try something new, I’m thinking mitered squares, I’ve never done that before. Rip out again, cast on a fresh lot of stitches. By now we’ve tip-toed inside from the chilly front porch to the upstairs bedroom. A gently snoring cuddle puddle forms next to me on the mattress; I count stitches again as Lover waxes poetic on several winding topics. And as the sun rises, I look around and ponder the changes I’ve seen in the past four months, a sentimental feeling takes hold of me, something saying “Everything is okay.” It’s been a very long time since I sat up knitting, and talking, and writing. I’ve missed this more than I knew.

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