Knitting Without Dropping a Stitch

Growing up the fifth child in a chaotic family of six children, my mother was like a celebrity
to me. By the time I was born, she was bored with the thankless role of mother and wife, and she
had moved on to other challenges. The entrepreneurial world was much more rewarding to a smart
woman who loved to be the center of attention than dull children with bad manners. Small but very
curious, I watched her breeze through the house, busy, busy, busy – always rushing to somewhere else
where someone more important than me waited for her. I caught a glimpse of her, here, there, going,
coming, wondering all the while what was going on behind those bright green eyes of hers dancing over
me as she surveyed me like a stranger’s child the gypsies must have left in her home by accident.
In the women’s movement of the 1970s, she found the sisterhood she desired, the
understanding she yearned, and the blame which clearly rested upon my insensitive father. She was
angry. We were noisy children, even when good we were overwhelming to her fragile and creative
mind. She ran from us and we unknowingly made her run faster and further away.
“I’ll be back soon,” she would say rushing through the door leaving us in the care of Maria
or Anne or whoever the housekeeper was she was managing to keep, however temporarily. The hours would
pass. She didn’t return soon, but when she did, she came through the house like a hurricane and energy
swirled in unbearable patterns un-grounding us all. She didn’t want to come back, but she did because
she had to.
These are my memories of my mother: her absence; her anger; her entrapment. As a mother now,
I stop, and for the first time ever, I have compassion for her. Not because my therapist or self help
book recommended I forgive and forget, but because I have started to remember. Remember that there
were moments in which she really did love me and gave me some very important skills – like the ability
to knit.
As a college professor and busy professional woman now, I am rushing, rushing, rushing. My
mother came from across the sea to stay with me and my son. She sat on my couch knitting and
crocheting, her aged fingers moving rapidly and creating masterpieces. Her mind elsewhere still but
stopping occasionally to sip her tea or a nip of brandy while she wove blankets, coasters and ponchos.
There was no end to her talent. I know that she wanted to make me something, and I really didn’t want
her gifts now. It was too late for me and her. All I had ever wanted was for her to know me and it
seemed like it was pointless now. The time passed, and she went home.
The following year, stressed by my doctoral research to finish my Ph. D, I tried to find ways
to quiet my mind and busy my hands. Through some invisible process of gravity I found the cold, hard
knitting needles between my hands and the soft lamb-like yarn between my fingers. In the same spot
that she had sat in, I now sit producing scarves, ponchos, blankets, and comforting myself. I
experiment with colors and yarns and weave wonderful gifts of love for people in my life. I give them
away freely and make more and more and more.
When the pressure of the dissertation became great, I wore my baby pink poncho that I had
created like a shield against the academic cold. It warmed my soul and kept me safe. My sister
called from overseas. She and my other sister were coming for my graduation, but it looked as if my
mother would not come. Months had passed and I had not spoken to her. I called her and left her
messages. No reply.
“Mum said she tried to call you,” my sister said.
“Sure,” I replied. “Is she coming?”
My sister looked at me and shrugged.
The next day I was at the college and entering a large auditorium to deliver a lecture on
Media Economics – thrilling stuff. A young woman with flowing brown hair ran up to me, digging into
her book bag.
“I have something for you,” she said.
I stood waiting at the door, I was expecting a doctor’s note or a late paper. She pulled out
a scarf from her bag.
“My mother knits, and she made this for you,” she said.
I looked at her, perhaps for longer than I realized. She continued to talk.
“I told her – my mother – that you liked to wear scarves to class.” She smiled at me again but
her face was starting to change. My blank expression must have discouraged her enthusiasm.
“That’s if you want it?” she added pushing it back into her bag.
“Yes, yes,” I finally said. “I do want it. Thank you and please thank your mother for me.”
She smiled and handed it to me. I smiled at her and she went into the auditorium blending
into the droves of students in the rows of endless seats. I walked down the stairs to the podium
slowly. I wanted to turn around and run out. I wanted to cry. I wanted to yell. I wanted to hug this
young woman and thank her again. I wanted to single out this young woman for her thoughtfulness.
Instead I decided I would ask her later to give me her mother’s name and I could write her a note.
What would I say?
And there it all was before me in my head, first blurry and then perfectly clear. The complex
stitches that link mother to daughter and woman to woman had come full circle for me in that
moment. I was making a difference in this young woman’s life, and she had told her mother.
Her mother had sent me, a perfect stranger, this gift — this scarf and this daughter. In that moment,
I realized that I had been unfair to my own mother all these years. I was able to knit because she
had shown me how. I didn’t thank her; I took her for granted. I was standing in front of a room full
of young people who hung on my every word, because she had made me independent, strong and bright.
I could bear a grudge if I wanted, but the truth was that my mother had made me who I was, stitch
by stitch by stitch. I knew in my heart it was finally time to let her off the hook.