Someone stole my yarn stash. I’m just gonna blurt it out like that –
during the move from old apartment to strange limbo, my yarn, my stash, my stuff, got its lid popped off and rifled through and, yeah, someone really walked off with alla my stash.
And I’m starting to realize that it hurts a little bit.
Because every knitter knows that with each skein there is the dream. The color, or the heft – the spin or the lack of it. Something in it beckons forth an almost matching shape, like the images in science class when the DNA helix is swirling clockwise up and the matching As and Cs and Gs and Ts are slipping into place. It’s a ball of yarn that you cup in your hand but the pictures that your mind is spinning are of friend’s and occasions and shapes and techniques you might try, might apply to this particular, this one and only – it’s another raw material that whispers to you – you could make someone happy with this. You could learn something new (how exciting it is, to learn something new!).
And, in a time when so many yarns tell stories of the animals and the farms and the people who gave birth to them, choosing a yarn can be like putting your hand in someone else’s, and making about a world that you want to keep living in. Maybe that’s just me.
But I mourn for the loss of those skeins – each one with a story, and two bags (one unopened) of Cascade 220 for a coat I pictured on my son (he looks so good in green), and some wonderful chunky alpaca in a velvety black, and a gifted warm reddish brown cone from a company out of my price range. I had bought a few grams of a silver-grey silk/wool blend and was waiting for a time when I had the patience for lace with the idea that it would become something like a gorgeous spiderweb…
The time to dream and my love and lust for life, right here, in this skein of yarn. They can’t take that away from me.