On Snoods and Escapism

on virtual holiday with the power of knitting

The start to this year has been—well, rocky to say the least. Living on the East Coast in what seems to be the epicenter of yet another variant that is somehow proving to us that no matter what we think is the right or wrong way to navigate this thing, that mother nature inevitably rules all, and she will do what she damn well feels like doing. Top that with a gnarly winter storm rounding out seven full days of overcast skies—basically it’s been hard for me to be a human. And who wants to go into a new year moping? Not this gal. But here we are. I am depressed. I am depressed thinking about another year of the emotional roller coaster we have been unwillingly riding since March 2020. I am depressed thinking about another friend cancelling plans because they were exposed. I am tired of grieving my business that has been producing so little since this all started. I am angry driving past the new banners advertising the school at the end of my block with the children smiling through masks and knowing these kids may not even know another normal. And although life seems to be functioning around me, it’s not functioning in a way that makes me feel safe, celebrated, or jubilant. It’s the type of function that makes me want to run out strictly for essentials, and return to the safety of my couch to binge watch whatever. And I literally mean that. I am warmed-over to the point that I am indifferent about what I am even watching. Horror? Cool. Dumb comedy? Great. That really terrible movie that somehow people think is good because we’re all dulled with apathy? [you know the one.] Yep. Put it on.

You get the picture.

But I’m not just writing this issue of On Holiday to sulk. That would be counter productive. And while sitting for coffee with a friend last week, discussing how I was going to write a story about Nazuki that I had on a bus ride in Western Georgia, she looked at me and said, “Maya, I want to know about the knitting.”

I learned to knit when I was about 14, and I was home sick for a week with some form of strep throat, and my grandmother was visiting. While watching the Land Before Time movies, she taught me how to knit. I made a bag under her supervision—a crossbody in multiple shades of pink. I adorned it with buttons, and I wore it to school. I was so proud. It was so ugly, but I made it. After that, I didn’t really knit again. My life was busy—I took ballet 4 days a week, and had loads of homework. [Why does our schooling system require so much homework? Why are we being trained to work long hours from the age of 7 when we should be learning how to actually live? I digress, but also, not really.] But, the skill of knitting has always remained in my back pocket.

As 2021 came to a close, I felt a feeling of complete surrender. For better or worse, I had nothing left, but to just be. My partner and I had plans to have a semi-intimate New Year’s Eve dinner in our home with a towering cake and lots of glittering candles. Maybe I’d even wear that cool outfit I’d been wanting to wear since the beginning of this year. But as the day drew nearer, we knew the smarter decision would be to cancel our plans. We dwindled the celebration down to two friends. Out of an abundance of caution. I was tired. I am tired. And so, on New Year’s Eve, I didn’t make resolutions, I didn’t take inventory of the past year, I instead, laced up my sneakers and walked downtown to a yarn store I found on google. The week prior, in what was truly an intuitive hit, I felt a strong urge to pick up knitting needles after almost 17 years. I found a kit online, and I thought about it every minute of every day until it arrived at my door. I ripped open the package, and began knitting. The soft, thick yarn felt comforting in my hands, and each row I completed was a moment of celebration. I smiled wider than I have in a long, long time. Something about the rhythm of making stitches and the soft clicking of the wooden needles, lulled me into a deep state of comfort. As the rows got longer, the yarn laid on my belly, covering it in safety. Three hours later, I stitched up the final product—a cherry red snood, and put it around my neck. I made this. And the feeling was addictive. I felt more centered, directed, joyous, purposeful, and much calmer than I have in years. I wasn’t checking my phone to engage in content that inevitably tossed my emotions around like a rag doll. I wasn’t crying about existential problems that I can’t fix. I was just knitting. I needed more. So on New Year’s Eve, I entered the yarn shop, bustling with both avid and beginner knitters, warmed by smiling eyes picking out colorful skeins of yarn, and chatting about the projects they were working on. It was a whole new world. I bought more yarn than could be wound for me in their shortened holiday hours, and I left with a 40 page printed pattern for a sweater.

Since January 1st, I’ve been knitting. I knit through the snowstorm, through the cancelled plans—I even knit on a call as I spoke, choking back frustrated tears. And each time I looked down at my piece, seeing the bright colors come together into panels between my fingers, I felt a glimmer of peace. As these panels become larger parts of this sweater, I have a feeling of knowing everything will be alright. Knitting is my current meditation—my daily escape. It’s a way for me to move forward, day-by-day, stitch-by-stitch. It’s my first holiday of 2022.

And seriously, I’m selling snoods to keep this holiday going. HMU if you want your own cozy hood of love and comfort.

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Some articles I’ve found interesting on the topic:

Olympic diver and knitter Tom Daley launches his own online knitting shop

In a Stressful Time, Knitting for Calm and Connection

DC Teenagers Have Gotten Really Into Knitting During the Pandemic

How Pandemic Burnout Sparked a Knitting Revival