My 14-year-old was home sick on my writing day this week.  At first, I hacked away at a particularly challenging piece I’m writing, meaning to carry on with my day’s plans.  Then I really took a look at her, my ill daughter, sitting on the couch, knitting a scarf to give away next week at one of the homeless shelters in town.  I thought, Well, I could do that, too.

I have possessed for years an entire grocery sack full of navy blue yarn, given to me by my mom, who was given it by her long-time friend, Charlotte.  I had not, before now, had a project for it.  Now I do.  It is a deep pleasure to use something that holds in its twists strands of that loving friendship, which included a shared love of yarns and textiles.

My daughter and I sat side-by-side and knitted scarves.  We talked.  We watched a movie about Darfur so that I could be better educated about the situation there.  She shared with me some of what she knows that wasn’t part of the movie.  We talked about this one precious world we have; we talked about wanting to make it better.  We knitted into the afternoon.