Hand Knit Gifts
Blessing (or cursing) others with the work of my hands
In the late 1990’s I worked in a bookstore; this meant that every relative got a book for every holiday and birthday. Completely blind to the fact that maybe everyone didn’t want ANOTHER book from Aunt Cate, I did this for years.
Then, right around the turn of the millennium, there was a renascence of knitting as a funky, fun pastime, appropriate for any age (remember Vickie Howell?), and the bookstore now stocked many how-to-knit books and kits. My childhood obsession with sticks and string reawakened, I bought one of those kits; it included a beginner’s instruction book and several patterns, a small skein of yarn, and size 8 needles.
I cast on, persevered through those first awkward stitches, and completed every pattern in the kit. I was off to the races, and I didn’t stop until a knitting injury (that’s right) forced me to take a break for a couple of years. As my skill grew I gradually shifted into knitting - obsessively - for others.
You’re Welcome!
I cringe a little at how obsessed I was with knitting and how much I thought others would love my gifts. What was I thinking when I decided to knit a weird little tchotchke for the birthday of every workmate on my team??
Bundles of Joy
I completely ignored hopeful baby gift registries in favor of custom garments for the little poopers - because what new parent doesn’t want the chance to painstakingly remove spit-up stains on handmade baby clothes made of yarn?
(I do still stand behind the hat though. I made it for a baby girl named Audrey, after Audrey Hepburn, and it is the perfect hat.)
Ho Ho Ho!
Christmas mornings were woolly parades of cozies, scarves, balaclavas, socks, scarves, wraps, and scarves. One year I made Christmas stockings for every single member of my immediate family, my family of origin, and all of their offspring - and their pets. The stockings were personalized and shoved down the family’s collective throat with a merry “Ho ho ho! Please, completely overhaul your Christmas decor to match these stockings.”
But Seriously.
I especially loved to knit for my parents, and my father was probably the most appreciative recipient in the family. Several years before his death I presented him with a traditional zigzag afghan in shades of gold, burnt orange, and brown. He was delighted, and a few years later he wore it out and asked me for another one.
One of my deepest regrets is that I did not knit another blanket, and one of my greatest joys is that in the last days of his life I was able to give him a shawl I had knit for myself years prior; it was the only covering that kept him warm in the hospital and it covers his body where he lies now.
So, two items were gifts - the first afghan and the shawl I had made for myself, that served him so much more. I write more about items we create to ultimately fill a need that does not yet exist in this post.
I loved to knit for my mom too, and made her dishcloths because she loved them, although her response to the dozen handmade Mother’s Day dishcloths was unenthusiastic. I’m not sure why that was; who doesn’t love a gift that allows them to scrub more dishes?
I gifted Mom with more than just dishcloths; among other things, I knit her the shawl below, with the idea that she could just drape it over her shoulders as protection from the drafts in their “Up North” Michigan home. She accepted the gift graciously, but I never saw her wear it, which puzzled me.
Several years later as I was looking for something in her closet, I found the shawl, under a small sheaf of paper that turned out to be an article on how to tie a scarf. Mom wanted so badly to wear that shawl, but her not-yet-diagnosed Alzheimer’s prevented her from realizing that she could just wrap up however she wanted.
Mom was now well past the point where she could enjoy the garment. This caused me so much sorrow, made worse by the knowledge that she, too, likely experienced sadness at not knowing how to use the shawl.
Later, emptying their house after Dad was gone and Mom too sick to stay there, I asked my sister if she had seen the shawl, to which she responded that she had donated it the previous day. While I felt a definite twinge of hurt, I wasn’t angry. We were all too emotionally exhausted for anger.
(Honestly, I’m still a bit exhausted. Some part of me knows that Mom’s inability to navigate the shawl or to ask for help, as well as my failure to notice, created such deep pain in my soul that even now, five years later, my subconscious - or something - won’t allow that earthquake to erupt. This is true of many aspects of the ravages of Alzheimer’s. but I digress.)
Release
I no longer knit for holidays or birthdays except for my son if he asks, which means the volume of gifts has dropped dramatically. That hiatus in knitting, the donation of the shawl, and a general shift in my attitude toward people and possessions has given me clarity. I have told every gift recipient in my family that I have no expectations regarding their use or disposition of those gifts, and I tell every new gift recipient the same thing.
Now, the act of knitting feeds my soul as I manifest the items that I love, and I give with spontaneity when the urge hits. Because I assure the initial recipient that they are free to use, donate, or regift the item, I know the item will find its intended recipient, at the exact time it is needed. The fact that I may never know if or when an actual need will present itself - well, that’s a gift. The item is released to go where it will, and I can let that be. I may not always know who the recipient is. And then maybe tomorrow or maybe in a month or year I’ll knit something else, when the spirit moves me.