Yarn-Over Matter

Arts and Crafts have never seemed like a good fit for me. I have never been good at any kind of creative pursuit that requires sitting still or closely following instructions. My apartment is filled with IKEA furniture that looks like it was assembled by Picasso (this includes an armchair that definitely can’t be trusted and a bathroom cabinet I suspect will collapse like a Jenga tower if I were to ever breathe too heavily on it). I’m a chronic knee-bouncer with a short attention span, who will jump from one task to another leaving a trail of half-finished work in my wake. Loved ones will generously refer to me as a multi-tasker. In truth, this nervous energy is a symptom of my chronic anxiety, something I have struggled with since before I even knew what it was. Over the years many well-meaning friends have recommended a variety of coping techniques from meditation to mountain climbing. And one after one I have tried and failed; feeling a little more defeated each time. The number of adult coloring books in my possession with half-finished pages is frankly embarrassing. Long had I marveled at the artisinal projects of my friends and family; my mom has never met a Pinterest craft she couldn’t conquer, a number of my close friends are supremely talented graphic designers and photographers, and at family holiday parties there is no shortage of homemade jams and embroidered dish towels.

And for a long time I was not a part of this. I was a patron of their crafts, but never a participant. I comforted myself with reminders that in today’s modern world these were not critical skills or that my time would be better spent on more practical occupations (that Netflix series isn't going to watch itself). Surely it would be far simpler to go buy a scarf than painstakingly crafting one myself. And yet I wanted to be a part of it. Eventually, my love of period dramas spurred me to endeavor to create my own Jane Austen-esque knitwear. Armed with some knitting needles, some scissors, and as many skeins of yarn as I could carry out of the craft store, I made my first attempt. Under the guidance of my very patient mother I would make a very simple, but practical, washcloth.

I did not take to knitting immediately. The needles felt awkward and clunky. I didn’t have the fluid movements I had seen in other more experienced knitters. Casting on the stitches was problematic, the first time I had to yarn-over to add a stitch was a disaster. This was a project intended for beginners, designed to be a fail-proof, easy win and instill a sense of confidence in the novice knitter. What should have been a perfectly square washcloth was shaped more like a stingray; I sent a picture of the finished product to my mom with a photoshopped face for emphasis. In truth, I was glowing with pride at having finished this sad little accomplishment. There was something about it that felt therapeutic, and over time the process became a kind of muscle memory. That is not to say it was without struggle. No small amount of tears have been shed over dropped yarn loops and lost stitch markers. But even the trials and tribulations were learning experiences. Eventually, instead of getting frustrated I would teach myself to work through the problem or step away when it got to be too much. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was teaching myself coping strategies that would be invaluable tools in battling my anxiety.

In the years since I first started learning, knitting has been my constant companion: when I first went away to college, when I moved to a foreign country, when I sat with my mom during her chemotherapy appointments, when I lived alone in my first apartment, and, most recently, during quarantine. Over time I've come to understand that my experience is not unique, and that the documented therapeutic benefits of knitting extend from anxiety and depression to dementia, blood pressure, and far beyond. Furthermore, one of my greatest joys nowadays is knitting gifts for my friends and family.

I am far from being an expert knitter. I still frequently make mistakes or have to restart a project. I’ve never fully grasped the concept of gauge. But knitting for me has never been about getting it perfect. It’s not even been about finishing. It’s been about starting. It’s about creating. It’s about channeling my feelings of stress and anxiety to make something that wasn’t there before. I have never been more grateful for this than in the last year. It’s kept me centered and helped stop my hands from doom-scrolling through the newsfeed. I don’t think knitting is a hard and fast cure for anxiety; But it has helped me get better at finding and developing a set of coping mechanisms so that now, when I feel the anxiety start to creep back in, I know I won’t unravel.