Patience

Don't say needle to me. I don't like to sew and doctors scare me.

But when my young friend, Elizabeth, offered to teach me to knit I was game. On a gray March afternoon we went shopping for yarn...and needles. I had no idea. Every nook of the little store was ablaze with color and textures, hanging from the ceiling to heaps on the floor, making my fingers itchy. In the middle of all this women were snugged around a table, sharing a passion.

The shopkeepers encouraged us to touch it all, pull it down, so what if it hits the floor, it won't break! Hand dyed yarn. Is there anything more beautiful? We critiqued skein after skein holding them up to our faces like we were picking a new shade of lipstick. We were wading in a sea of color. A bundle of aqua marine blues and greens with those eyes of hers...a must have.

I presented a little bit more of a problem. From the moment I saw it I knew this ball of fiery red orange shocking pink was going to take up residence in my lap. No. Matter. What. It is wool, magically spun into a ribbon. It twirls and flips and changes color all at the same time.

The shopkeeper tried to steer me to something a little more ordinary. A yarn that was not so finicky, one that could tolerate practice, one that the stitches, rather than color took the stage.

An hour later we were by the fire with a cup of tea, Elizabeth with her seascape and lots of patience, and me with my fireball and pink needles.