Monday, 24 May 2010
All you knit is love.
These hands are mine. Knitting in Barcelona. They could, however, quite easily be the hands of my mother, or indeed my grandmother. I have clear memories of seeing a photograph of my grandmother in a very similar setting, also on holiday, also in the sunshine. She is sitting on a rock (I think) knitting in her hands, in a beautifully stylish dress, looking at the camera with a little gleam in her eye. She is on her honeymoon, the person holding the camera is her new husband, and I believe she is knitting something for him, even while they are walking in the countryside.
It makes me smile to think of that picture, and to think of how proud she would be to know that I now share her love for knitting (and her wish to do it whenever and wherever). She never saw me knit. She tried patiently to teach me when I was younger, but I was more interested in climbing trees and pretending to be Columbo than sitting patiently forming stitches. But here I am now, having learnt from her daughter, and taken on what feels like the inevitable love of the craft that the women in my family have.
It's lovely, because every time I look down at my hands holding my needles I think of my grandmother and I think of my mum, and I smile.