Freedom

Since casting off the alphabet blanket, the creative flood gates have opened. In my effort to finish by the second mother threatening self-imposed deadline, I have ignored the voices in my head. Don't pretend you don't hear voices, too. They are usually disguised as the alpaca laceweight, corriedale roving, or worsted tweed in the back of your stash.

I've envisioned lace sweaters, cabled sweaters, lace shawls, socks, and a myriad of other fabulous knits. Some from recently received magazines, some from the depths of my creativity. But all of them were ruthlessly shoved aside, cruelly locked away, and rudely ignored to finish the current knit on the needles.

Since Tuesday, there has been figuring, calculating, and lots of knitting. I've completed a whole right front of a cardigan for my mother. The math came pretty easily since no waist shaping was involved. Of course, I'm slightly concerned that the math was too easy. The knitting gods may be waiting to knock my smug self down a peg when I fit it to my mother a few days forth from now.


I suspect that my creativity had been held prisoner for so long that it may have emerged slightly cracked and demented. In the past, I have often and loudly proclaimed I do not knit Fair Isle, Intarsia, or anything else that remotely resembles colorwork. Thus, where the desperate need to swatch for a fair isle children's mitten pattern came from I cannot tell.

Let this be a lesson. Depriving one's creativity of fresh air can cause one to knit things otherwise avoided. Already the novelty has begun to wear off and sanity is slowing returning.

I still have a few more ideas bubbling in my head, but I'm starting to feel the pull of the peacock shawl. It, too, has been long neglected. One more section needs to be swatched and designed. Then no further obstacles stand between me and completion.

Aaaah, freedom to knit. Anything. Everything. It feels so good.