There is no pattern for this

yarn stash

One of eight bins of yarn in my house.

I have a lot of yarn in my house. A lot. When I buy yarn for a project, I overshoot it. I buy too much by a ball or a hank or a skein or two. (You’re looking at two hanks of yarn in the picture right now, the light blue that looks like a cruller and the orange that looks like a sea critter, if you were wondering what a hank was. It’s a twisted loop of yarn.) I overestimate, because I don’t want to run out and have to get more and have it not be the same color. I’m a glutton out of fear. And I never finish a project in time to return the excess to the yarn store. So I have a lot of extra yarn. I don’t make nearly enough hats and toys and finger puppets and potholders to take it up. I don’t make afghans for cold people who don’t care if the squares match or not (I am a perfectionist and they must match for me and mine. The idea of them not matching makes my eye twitch). Not to mention all the ambitious yarn I just bought on sale for something and now I can’t even remember what the fuck it was for.

My house is a yarn store. It’s ridiculous.

So I’m on a stash-busting kick. Because I just bought more yarn and I realized how much I still have, beautiful merino wools and buttery alpacas and glossy silk/cashmere blends. Delicious stuff, richly dyed. Stuff I still have interest in knitting. (Oh, and some garbage acrylic that just shows up uninvited as well, like relatives looking for money.) I just knit my first stash busting project, The Retro Redux Shrug. And I’m pleased as punch. I’m knitting something with branch new yarn, but I can already see there will be mohair left over. So I’m hunting for something else to knit with it.

I’m looking for something to knit with just a little of this, and more of that, and quite a bit of this. I think I will have enough to make a wool lap blanket, even if I don’t want the thing afterward. Someone will. Someone has different taste than me and is cold. Someone will let their pets roll on it (animals love wool), or is in a wheelchair, and will need a lap-sized blankie.

I think on this adventure I will learn to knit socks.

But there is no pattern for what I really want. What I really want to knit is an umbilical cord, Rapunzel-like, out my window, down, down, down into a sea of humanity, connecting me to the one I shall love. Because no one would climb such a hideous knitted thing except the man for me.


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