Knit Knot

The sky outside the window was falling swiftly from twilight into night, yet the woman sat before her fire with no care for the world outside. She’d seen and experienced enough in a lifetime and far too many restless nights.

She followed a strand of blue thread between her fingers as it wound its way towards the future of what it would become and what she, too, would also become. The blue strand bound together pieces of the past, leaving behind a life in its wake. Similar to so many others crisscrossing through the universe, the one in her hands followed her fingers and hook, slowly making its way across the pattern unfolding. She didn’t know if she would live long enough to see the tapestry fully unfold. She’d never saved enough time for herself and as the winters grew colder and the walls of her cottage seemed thinner.

As she sat, crackling fire before her feet, a silent cat watching the darkening corners of the room, a knock startled her from her methodical movement of hook and yard. “Oh bother, not another one.” She pushed to her feet and shuffled to the rough-hewn door.

Outside, a small creature smaller than a child, but not a child sat nervously on her doorstep. “Please ma’am, I’ve heard you can help those who are lost.”

She nodded once, “Perhaps, but I would like to tell you a story first.” She motioned to a cushion on the floor near the hearth, as though it had been waiting for someone to fill it.

Silently, the creature moved towards it, poked it once, and settled its haunches waiting.

“You’re a silent thing, aren’t you?” The grandmotherly woman asked, not expecting an answer. She closed the door with a gentle push and shuffled back to her seat. “Can I get you anything? I may have biscuits or some nice potatoes.”

The being shook his head no, his scattering of hair shifted around his head like waves of water.

“Well enough, I suppose.” She settled herself and picked up her crochet once again, sitting for a few moments in the golden glow cast by the fire.

“There was once a young girl, who was lost in the woods. Well, perhaps not lost, but left in the woods.”

“You see, her parents didn’t have any money to provide for their children and she was the oldest and wisest of the four. You wouldn’t imagine an 8-year-old to be cunning, but this little girl knew all the plants of the woods by the time she was 2, she’d befriended the forest animals by 4. Her parents were sure, if one of them would survive alone, it would be her.” The granny smiled as the story played out in her mind.

“But you see, the little girl knew her way through the woods better than her father. She knew tracking and direction with only a small margin of error, yet she hesitated before trying to find her way back home. They’d turned her out for a reason; they’d drugged her and carried her away in the night not out of hate or anger. It wasn’t intended to be a punishment, but rather a salvation.”

“They’d also left her as many meager belongings as they could. A small ruck sack lay nearby with a hatchet, a knife, some worn animal fur for the cold, and a few morsels of dried meat. It was all they had and all they could give.”

“Tears slid down her face and she angrily brushed them away with her sleeve. She wasn’t mad at them; she was mad at the world for all the unkindness it had shown to her family as she’d grown-up. But the world couldn’t help but be cruel to those who have so little. There are so few who notice the ones who are swept from the hearth.”

The little creature tilted its head as though confused.

“Do you have a question?” She paused and asked.

It’s voice came out gravely and slightly garbled as it tried to piece the right sounds together. “Why did she not hate them?”

“Perhaps some part of her tried to but it was a feeling that never really grew. You see, when someone does something out of love instead of out of hate, the heart almost always understands. After some time, she knew she could go home and help bring money in to help the rest of them, but she’d moved on. She still loved them, as they did her, but she’d put that chapter behind her.”

“When it’s time, we move on. Though she was so young, she did very well for herself. Do not feel bad for her, she lived a life she loved and she found peace in her past.”

The creature pushed himself to his feet, feeling the story was over.

The grandmother settled the crochet in her lap and laced her fingers, “Now, on to your situation. You asked if I helped those who are lost, and I suppose in a way I do. And yes, I was once that little girl, alone in the woods but I do not abandon those seeking a light.”

“You have helped,” it’s guttural words sounding a bit more intelligible. “I may be lost, but I am not helpless. I can find my peace too.”

“That’s all we can do in this world. Each of us is finding a way to live with the lives we are given. If we can do that, then we will find what we are looking for.”

With that, she led him to the door. He bowed with gratitude and left an apple at her feet. The beings of the woods were so kind in their offerings and she gladly took them if it made them feel better about coming to her. She shut the door with a soft thud but there was no lock as she had never needed one.

Finding her way back to her chair, she settled in for a while longer, weaving the chains of the blanket into the pattern they would become in the end. The blue fibers seemed to branch out into all avenues of her life, the sky over the village after a rain storm passed, the echoes of crashing waves on her first sea journey.

Is it any wonder, humans don’t realize the tapestry they weave as they wander through life, she thought to herself as she tied off a color and bound on the next. She’d crafted numerous pieces of clothing, embroidery, tapestries and newborn blankets. Her skills had been renowned but no one wants to stay in the limelight forever. So she found her peace once again in the woods, sometimes weaving for those who would come. At times, the threads become knotted and the patterned a bit flawed, but often you find, even with small flaws, the pattern comes back.

Perhaps in life, we cannot always undo the past, but in crochet, the chains can too easily slip apart with a careless tug; it takes patience and time, even if you’ve built a foundation of chains. In the end, we each weave a tale unsure of the ending, and with the threads of time, we spin a life.