Knit Together

I spent this past weekend in a small town in New Hampshire, tucked into a little mountain lodge on top of a ridge overlooking the White Mountains. This roadside inn is not fancy; the accommodations are far from luxurious, though the view of the White Mountains out the back windows is magnificent. The last time any decor was attended to (and I use that term very loosely) was likely in the 70s. Who knew that orange formica, beige linoleum, green polyester carpet, and thin yellow towels were essentially indestructible? The furniture in the rooms is your grandmother’s old maple bedroom furniture (most likely with the same mattress). The bathroom facilities are basic at best, and we hold our breath and cross our fingers when we turn on the shower; hot water is a gift here, not a given. But regardless - this is a special place, and I’ve been heading north faithfully several times a year with a dear friend for 15 years; the timeline has blurred some over time, but I rarely miss. And when I do, I feel the loss.

These are my knitting weekends. The inn’s once-busy dining room that served three meals a day to a busy tourist crowd is now a bustling yarn shop; and the innkeeper- an expert knitter (as well as a savvy business woman) has built a following of knitters from around New England who faithfully attend her knitting weekends - some once a year, others twice and even three times. We gather in her dining room/shop for three days in order to knit, yes; but we also spend the weekend making new friends, renewing old acquaintances, and learning about life and love and loss from other women who - we quickly discover - are on the same journey we are. True - some walk the road with more grace than others; but it quickly becomes clear that we all have eerily similar concerns, cares and joys: sick parents, wayward children, deaths and births; divorces, retirement — transitions of all kinds. I am always amazed after each weekend how similar we all are when it comes to the things in life that matter.

I’ve met all kinds of women, in all walks of life: a railroad engineer; a dealer in used firetrucks; a llama farmer; a clerk of courts in a busy city. Professors, school teachers, accountants, bookkeepers, chemists, nurses, waitresses, housewives. The stories and laughter shared by these women teach me each weekend that the shared wisdom of such an assembly of women is sacred and to be cherished.

The weekends begin quietly, as each woman takes stock of the others. That first evening, the clicking of the needles reverberates loud against the silence of watchful waiting. I’ve realized over the years that what we are really doing is deciding if this group of women is worthy - worthy of our time, worthy of our hearts. I’ve learned that when two or three are gathered together to knit, there will be talking, and sharing, and most importantly, listening. We laugh, we cry - and we want to be sure that these women around the table will hold our hearts gently and carefully. For many, their hearts have been broken too many times. The sharing of it takes courage - and wisdom.

I love to sit at the table, and knit whatever project I’ve got on my needles. And listen. Sometimes I speak up; but mostly, I listen. Without fail, each weekend reveals a beautiful array of souls, women with varying strengths and weaknesses. Eventually, the stories emerge; some whispered, some cried, many with smiles and joy and breathless wonder. On one weekend, a woman shared in hushed lament of a husband’s recent passing. In her raw sorrow, she knew that coming up to knit that weekend was not optional: she desperately needed to be in the company of women who would listen without comment, without opinion, without expectation. They would understand her pain, and quietly invite her into the circle. Another woman arrived with harried, hollow eyes, exhausted from caring for a dying father who -with her family - had run her ragged. She left them silently in the early darkness of a cold winter morning, with only written instructions on how to proceed in the coming weekend. She had come to hide in the comfort of other women who recognized the visceral need to sometimes simply run away and become invisible. And rejuvenate.

These weekends have taught me that all women are survivors. They have come, surviving abusive husbands, unfair divorces, discrimination at work, difficult children - and find empathetic ears, understanding eyes, and quiet tongues that whisper only encouragement and acceptance. Other women crawl to the weekend, fresh from cancer treatment, sharing the sheer terror of cancer, the heartache of a mastectomy, the drudgery and pain of treatment and recovery. Many of us share the heartbreak of watching elderly parents fail; the exhaustion of caring not only for our family, but the grinding hyper-vigilance of caring for a parent who is confused, stubborn, rebellious and failing. Women who’ve lost jobs and find themselves unexpectedly struggling; women caring for sick husbands, addicted children — feeling alone, abandoned and tortured in the hell of “what ifs”. Each story is different, yet the thread of love, care and perseverance in each woman runs soul-deep.

I love these weekends because they remind me of who I am; of who I was created to be. As Abilene in “The Help” tells her charge daily: “You is kind. You is smart. You is important.” Not only little girls need to hear that - we all do. These weekends remind me in the midst of my own hectic and sometimes distracted life that I am strong and wise; I can persevere through the storms that come my way, and that I can conquer the difficulties of my journey with grace and love. I am reminded that we have something to offer to a hurting world; that our hands can comfort, our tears can heal, and our hearts can love. We, as women, may not be able to fix everything wrong in this world, but for these women? for a short weekend? We are enough.

In the end, it is amazing how the rhythmic clicking of knitting needles around a crowded table of yarn and tea cups unlocks that door we women keep closed on our deep hurts and emotions. For a short weekend, we become as sisters, one in heart, joined by yarn and needles. Knit together in compassion and in love. And in the end, it’s all that we could possibly want - that, and a hot shower.