At the end of the week, I needed a soft landing space. It was one of those days where I kept winding up having Important Phone Calls in weird places — on the floor of a classroom in a building across from one of our hospitals, on the wide couches in the client waiting area at Audi where I was picking up my car after having summer tires put on.
I ended up in the east end in the middle of the day, and since street parking was on my side, went into my favourite yarn store, The Purple Purl. It was like a little nest — beautiful yarn, a whole passel of earth mothery types knitting in the centre, a sweet baby, helpful women wearing shoes like mine. I selected some yarn and hung out longer, using their ball winder and swift and just basking in the calm.
The therapeutic value of being around yarn has been well documented, especially by Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, aka The Yarn Harlot. The possibility of creating something lovely, the meditative aspect of one stitch at a time, the huge sense of accomplishment at deciphering a pattern that was in someone else’s head first. I really fell into its embrace on Friday, buying yarn that never made it to the needles all weekend. The knitting is almost beside the point sometimes.