It doesn’t matter how the skein of navy blue cotton yarn turned into 108 yards of tangled disaster.  It doesn’t even matter that I needed that yarn to complete knitting an almost finished sweater.  What will matter are the lessons learned in the process of turning a hopeless mess into a perfect round ball of yarn. 

On a hot, humid Saturday afternoon in July I am sitting across from my 92-year-old mother in her den.  Two fans, both turned onto the highest setting, provide a cross breeze of relief as we chat and knit.  Well, more accurately, my mother is knitting a scarf, and I am holding up a snarled catastrophe.  “Maybe you could buy another skein at the knit shop,” she suggests.  “I think that they were out of this color,” I respond, adding “and even if they could order more, it probably would be from a different dye lot.”  “Well,” she offers, “how about if I help you.  Four hands are better than two.”  “It looks hopeless,” I answer, knowing what she will say next.  “Don’t give up so easily.  Just keep trying.”

Finding the free end of the yarn, I begin to follow its path, making headway at a painfully slow rate. For her part, my mother holds up and tries to spread out the Medusa-like mass.  “Are you okay, Mom?” I ask when I see her shifting position in her armchair. “I’m fine, Honey.  It feels good to be helpful.” I continue winding the yarn, inch by inch, around my left hand while my right hand picks through the maze and my eyes strain to follow the thread.  “I’m not making much progress.  Maybe we should take a break.”  More encouragement from Mom as she smiles sympathetically.  “Work at it a little longer and then we’ll have lunch.” After about half an hour, I’m feeling like throwing the whole thing up in the air or down on the ground or out the window.  “Okay, lunch time,” I announce.

One peanut butter and jelly sandwich later, and we are back in her den.  I examine the now golf sized ball and sigh.  “Think of it as a challenge,” says my very patient mom.  And somewhere along that endless thread I unconsciously pass from frustration into a kind of comfortable rhythm.  “Look,” points out my mother, “The ball is growing bigger and the tangle is getting smaller.”  I wind and she pulls, wind and pull. Intermittent conversation breaks up comfortable stretches of silence.  Then, like an explorer discovering new territory, I exclaim, “Look, I’ve found it, the other end of the thread!”  I begin to work from this new end, forming a second ball, and taking turns working from both directions.  “I feel like I’m a contestant on a game show and I’m winning,” I tell my mother.  She laughs as I make my way through to the home stretch.  “Done!” we both announce.  “How long did this take?” I ask, holding up the ball.  We both look at our watches.  “Well, allowing for lunch and bathroom runs, I’m thinking we spent over three hours,” I say, adding “Thanks, Mom.” 

A few days later I’m sharing the story with my fellow knitters in our class at the local yarn shop.  “You know,” announces the teacher, “I do think we have more of that blue yarn.  Too bad you didn’t check here first before you spent all that time.”  “Actually,” I respond, “I wouldn’t trade that afternoon for anything.”  My mind replays those hours sitting across from my mom, and I think about the lessons offered by the experience.  There are the obvious ones, like remaining patient, not giving up, keeping a positive attitude, working as a team.  Then there are the bigger lessons, like appreciating time spent with someone you love, and valuing the present moment instead of rushing off towards the next ones. 

It’s in the slowing down that life’s blessings can emerge, gentle, comforting, precious.

By Diane Snyder

Diane Snyder recently retired from a long career as a pre-kindergarten teacher at the Jewish Community Center in Stoughton.  She now puts all of her energy into writing.