Wound perfectly into a neat ball.
Waiting to be worked into something new,
The feel of a new, soft skein of wool.
Anticipation bubbling up.
Excitement at what might be.
A tumble of ideas chasing through mind,
A design is chosen,
The crochet hook comes out,
The work begins,
Perhaps with some trepidation:
Will it turn out as beautiful as I imagine, as I hope?
Will I be able to do it?
Turn this plan on paper into something real and tangible?
Slowly at first.
The foundation chain must be set in place.
Count the loops, and count again.
Get this right and the rest will follow.
Get this wrong and forever we’re wondering why things are askew!
The foundations: not exactly exciting,
In fact, barely seen,
But, these modest beginnings should not be despised.
Indeed they are essential.
Great works do not simply spring up ready-made,
They come from small things started long before.
Like a seed.
Huge potential packed into such tiny space.
Alone it is not much to speak of.
Alone, a ball of wool, is…just a ball of wool.
It needs the hand of a creator to bring it to life,
To design it, to form it,
With love, care and attention.
An acorn falls from a noble oak,
What will fate will befall it?
To be eaten by a squirrel?
Its goodness unpacked and nibbled for fuel?
Or perhaps it will be buried,
And left, forgotten, to rot away,
Returning in time to the earth?
Or will it fall in fertile soil,
Protected in the cool shade
Primed for germination,
At just the right time.
Its hard shell softened and broken through
Just enough to allow that tap root out
To draw moisture and nutrients
From all around.
That potential needs water,
To grow little by little,
Into a mighty oak.
And that wool?
Well, as stitches were shaped, that neat ball unravelled.
It was messy at times;
Little knots formed
Seemingly of their own accord;
Seemed impossible to solve.
Yet, somehow, with patience and faith,
Those snarled up threads were tamed –
They unravelled under the guidance of a delicate touch,
To then take their turn in the pattern of this creation.
How these stitches are formed is yet mysterious,
Even though fabricated by my very hands,
I cannot quite fathom it.
The first part of the work is nerve-wracking,
I’m holding my breath to see if it will work.
So much hope,
Then I get into my stride,
Going great guns,
I get a little too confident,
I make mistakes.
Do I plough on regardless,
Or stop and undo?
I pull out those stitches,
See that curled wool,
Looking forlorn, awaiting redemption.
I keep going,
This time I concentrate,
Pay more attention.
I find a rhythm.
It goes well.
Then…I get fed up, disheartened,
It seems to be taking forever.
My wrists are sore,
My back is too,
I’ve done too much,
Pushed too hard.
I am downcast.
And yet I must keep on.
When will I see the finished article?
Will it be all that I envisioned?
I keep going some more.
And some more.
It is a slog.
But with the end vividly in mind,
I press on towards the goal.
Suddenly I’m almost there!
I slow down, want to cherish these last few rows.
After all, I’ve become fond of this work,
Some of me is bound up in it.
I don’t really want it to end.
But on the other hand I just can’t I wait,
To see it all finished,
What a delight.
Dreams come to fruition.
And there is.
It is done.
There was a small beginning,
A perfect package,
A little bundle of potential.
Then came the plan,
The design took shape,
And a journey was begun.
It wasn’t easy,
I made mistakes,
I learned much.
What not to do!
There was pain,
There was despair.
There was hope renewed.
A push to the end.
A finished article.
Imperfect in places,
But beautiful nonetheless,
And created out of my hands.
I am the creator.
And I am pleased with my creation.