It occurred to me recently that although I knit often, I have never actually sat and watched another person work. I often hear stories of people learning at a grandmother’s side, but that wasn’t my path; my own journey began with an impromptu lesson in my twenties.
There is something serene in watching another person knit. On my commute to work, I encountered a woman, likely in her seventies, knitting on the bus. She was working in the English style. The yarn was a variegated mix with swirls of lavender and violet dappled with mossy greens and muted earth tones. Using circular needles, she was crafting something tubular, perhaps a snood.
With her permission, I took a photo of her hands. For the rest of the ride, I simply watched. There was a rhythmic poetry to her stitches: knit, knit, yarn forward, knit through the back loop. At the end of each round, she would quietly move the marker and begin again.
I found myself turning off my music just to observe the silence of the process. The bus commute is usually part of the daily drudgery—better than fighting traffic in a car, perhaps, but drudgery nonetheless. Yet, the peaceful presence of her moving hands transformed the trip. It turned a mundane transition into a moment of quiet meditation.
