Beautiful

Yesterday’s all-day Christmas knitting marathon positioned me on the couch, hunched in a pretzel-like knot, clicking needles. My adorable husband surprised me by volunteering to step into previously uncharted territory (the kitchen) and bake Christmas cookies (because he wanted some and I was running out of time, but also because he wanted to be helpful).  By himself.  This was an unprecedented offer, having never-ever happened before in our history of 42 years together.  I was both shocked and pleased.

It was fun to watch his man-style baking processes: checking and re-checking to make sure of the difference between a teaspoon and tablespoon of baking powder, rolling the dough with the same finesse I’d seen him use when finishing concrete. 

The completed cookies, glazed and sprinkled, more than met my expectations.  I continued knitting the whole time he worked on them - focusing on counting stitches, making color changes, and throwing the yarn again and again with my pointer finger until my fingers cramped in protest. 

Long after the oven was turned off, I kept knitting.  By evening my fingers stung and  my neck ached; something deep-down was also strung-out like a taught rubber band ready to snap.  With the recent advent of ice and frigid temperatures, cabin fever had already set in to stay, and this project threatened to push me into the far corner of the Knitter’s Remorse closet.  However, I very much wanted to give this authentic British-style tea cosy to my daughter for Christmas (see blog entitled “Last Minute” on Dec. 16^th), and was resolved to finish.

At that point, with my eyes blurred from so much close-up work, my husband walked through the living room on his way from the TV room (think man cave) to the bathroom.  He paused behind me, the frozen-in-place Knitting Hunchback, and issued a 15-second oration: “I know my heart is weak and I’m in reprieve health-wise.  The reprieve won’t last forever; I may have years left, or maybe months or only days.  But I also know I’m glad to be here with you, in this house, able to value this moment and what we share together.”  He walked on, without waiting for me to comment.

I couldn’t have said much anyway.  What was there left to say?  Yarn filaments visually flooded before me, swimming in a soupy blur, while something like electricity passed down my spine.  Our LIFE is bigger than life, beyond what recently could have become death.  Our LOVE has matured from clawing for self’s desires and needs into offering self to each other. 

The evening wore on past midnight, and I finally finished the tea cosy at 1:30 a.m.  This afternoon I knitted two complementary mug cosies.  All were made with Peruvian Andes wool, from sheep that understood the dynamics of life in rugged, high places where air is thin, plants hardy, and heaven almost within reach. 

It is finally time to put the cosies in hiding behind red and green Christmas paper until their grand debut on Christmas Eve, just two days from now.  As I admire my hand-wrought projects one last time, I find myself pondering the various realities of life, including all the challenges and storms that mysteriously and ultimately knit together to shape beauty.