burning books

ruminating on the power of making during times of crisis

On New Year's Eve of 2024 I decided to go to my favorite local yarn store, T

he Little Knittery, to splurge on some yarn for a fun knitting project I had recently found on ravelry. My knit-jo had been all but demolished over the past couple years, and though I kept starting new projects with leftover yarn from my stash or vowing to challenge myself with crochet patterns, nothing ever stuck- I just wasn't inspired or excited about anything needlework related. Add to that the ennui gaining momentum in my life over the past several months due to some pretty heavy personal upsets, and I suddenly found myself feeling like a maker with no battery pack, constantly scrolling social media to save!, bookmark! pin! but not actually do.

It was during one of these boredom-induced scrolls that I found myself rifling through the thousands of patterns in ravelry's library. I had seen someone in a cute sweater vest and figured I would add some similar patterns to my Favorites bar on ravelry to fantasize about when lo and behold I came across the miraculous Library Card Sweater by a designer named PrettyGrandpa.

OMG. Obsessed. Immediately. This is my favorite kind of design these days, one that is so kitschy it borders on tacky, requiring a studied eye to bring it into the realm of tasteful and chic (although I also have a deep appreciation for just plain old tacky!) I've been more drawn to bold and bright and playful as I get older, in such stark contrast to the quiet and reserved way I wanted to dress as a kid since I hated standing out. I wouldn't necessarily say I dress to stand out nowadays, but I do try and dress to allow the inner kid in me to self express in all the ways she didn't feel safe to. She was incredibly artistic and creative and energetic, and also self-critical and ashamed for being so different- she desperately wanted to blend in. How would an emboldened, smart, creative little girl dress if she wasn't constantly feeling monitored by the eyes of pitying strangers wondering who she was, where she came from, why she looked like she did. How would she dress if she wasn't trying to hide, but instead was trying to energetically embody the entire cast of Rainbow Brite?

She'd dress how I dress now! Indeed, my penchant for pairing fuschia and orange together is called healing.

With my gorgeous soft wool in hand, I drove home from the yarn store, and instead of ringing in the new year with merriment and music and dancing and champagne, I spent it contentedly in my bed, silk head scarf tied, space heater on, audiobook at full volume.

Little did I know that this project was about to walk me through what is decidedly the most wicked disaster I have experienced to date.

It was about a week later when I walked outside and texted with friends about how crazy and intense the winds were. Though not novel, we don't get ones this fierce all that regularly, and my only worries about these Santa Ana winds were fallen trees, downed power lines, unhoused folks finding refuge. It wasn't until that night that we first heard about the fires, and by the time I woke up the next morning, the curtained window of my bedroom was spilling the most unnatural orange glow from it's edges. I leapt from the bed in a panic and opened the blinds to find a sky that just looked completely wrong. Wrong color, wrong tone, wrong consistency, smoky, murky, thick.

We were really close to the Eaton Fire, which was at that moment threatening to rage across Altadena but had not yet begun the havoc it would wreak in the coming days. What followed was the most bizarre math I had ever had to work through: panic, plus fear, plus worry, minus anything to actually do. I could literally see the edge of the most recent evacuation zones from my street, and we assumed our orders would come at any moment, but in the meantime we couldn't do anything but wait.

Panic plus fear plus worry, minus doing.

Eventually we made stuff up, spending hours outside, N95 masks on, sweeping up months of debris and leaf clutter from the sides of the house, knowing that flying embers would catch that stuff on fire more quickly. Would cleaning the grounds be enough to save this home if the fires changed direction and made their way to our beautiful enclave in Eagle Rock? Probably not. But it was something to do. We heard that the tap water was no longer safe to drink because the plastic pipes were now heated to such a degree as to release toxic material into the system, so we bought a large jug of specialized osmosis water from the store down the street and set it on the counter top, my prized kitchen aid mixer shoved aside to make room. I silently thanked the stand mixer for its service in case I didn't have the chance to officially say goodbye to it should worse comes to worse. We kept packed suitcases of essential items by the door and shoved important documents into bags, downsizing everything we had loved and made and lived with over the span of 18 years together into a couple of canvas tote bags. Nothing feels that important when everything is important. I repeated, like a mantra in my head: "Things are replaceable, people are not. Things are replaceable, people are not".

Hours went by, days. The fires raged on, uncontained, but our evacuation orders never came, and amazingly we never lost power, so we spent our time in front of the tv, trying to stay calm by watching old episodes of Great British Bake Off, ash flying all around our home. I still needed something to do, so I pulled out my project.

Knitting is like breath; your needle reaches through a blank space to find the loop of yarn: inhale. Once the yarn is looped around it, the needle reverses backwards to pull the yarn through: exhale. One stitch completed. Again: needle into the abyss, needle back out. Over and over again. Dozens of times. Hundreds of times. Thousands of times. I knitted and I purled this sweater to life, hour after hour, needles clicking in time with my breath, the sweater becoming its own living thing. 12 step recovery in al anon had finally convinced me that I was indeed powerless over others, powerless to the universe, powerless to disaster, both natural and political, powerless to tragedy, to grief, to loss; the only thing I have power over is me.

Knitting (and GBBO!) regulated my nervous system over the coming days. I wasn't in denial from my fear and anxiety, I didn't run away from my feelings or try to distract myself from them, but I didn't let them overwhelm me either. I was convinced that I could and would survive anything that happened, that all I had to focus on was getting through the day one breath/stitch/bake at a time. And I did.

I haven't stopped expressing gratitude for every single moment of that week. We are safe. The house is safe. I successfully took care of myself spiritually during an experience when, historically, I would have freaked the fuck out.

Of course my hands and wrists were sore after the marathon of knitting I did over that terrifying period of time, but I completed the sweater vest in about two weeks. I'm known to be a fast knitter but not *that* fast. It was the only doing that I could do, though, so it makes sense that it came to life so quickly. Now, in addition to the memories and the grief and the sadness I will always hold for this experience, I also have this sweater, this testament to the power of craft as meditation, to the power of my own will as soothing balm.

The irony of the timing of the fires and the new political climate and the threat to libraries across the country is obviously not lost on me. I'm hoping the garment serves as a way to start conversations with folks who otherwise might not feel inclined to chat; there's nothing like a striking, unique piece of clothing to push people out of their comfort zone. "Whoa, what a cool coat!" "OMG I love your overalls, they fit you so well!" Customarily I respond with a smile and a "thanks!" and if I have time, an "I made it," which often evokes the stranger's own memories of grandmas and aunts and mothers creating some kind of magic with floral printed cotton, the soft clink of a foot pedal pushed into carpet, the whir of a needle dancing up and down.

But now an "I LOVE THAT SWEATER!!!" from a stranger could be met with a "thanks, I made it...have you read any good books lately?" and maybe a quick little conversation about Miranda July or Danzy Senna or the Libby app, or if I'm really lucky, a great book recommendation. Maybe now I'm a walking Reading Rainbow. Maybe reminding myself and others of the beauty and power inherent in creating art, whether through writing or knitting or sewing, is the doing that I am meant for on this earth, in this life, in this body. What! A! Gift!

Maker Notes

:

This pattern is obviously pretty quick and straightforward- back and forth rows from the top down til it's joined underneath the arms. There is very little colorwork in the pattern, just a handful of horizontal rows and the one vertical row. The most humbling part of this pattern was the DUPLICATE STITCH, HOLY SHIIIIIITTTTT. I have never done this before, I've only done intarsia and Fair Aisle, and my god, she was tough! The actual stitching isn't hard, it's the counting and keeping the rows even across the letterwork. I had so many starts and stops and redos, must have worked for a full hour and a half to really understand what I was doing and then I still kept messing up, but I finally realized that I could use the horizontal lines to help me work the correct stitches (I could count from the bottom of the colored row up to know exactly where the stitch was supposed to end). It was tricky as anything but eventually I got the hang of it and it came out great. I have already cast on for another version that I want to gift to my BFF who is an absolute voracious reader, which means that I can't wear this one around her cause I want it to be a complete surprise. Highly recommend this sweater: pretty good instructions, nice, loose, relaxed fit, and magnificent impact!