Tibet Silk

I want to love you Tibet Silk. I fondled you in my LYS; I dreamed about you in the Patternworks catalogue. I told myself I wasn't worthy of such a beautiful yarn. I love your story, your reason for being, the idea that you are out there in this universe giving Tibetan refugees employment, that you are making use of something that would otherwise be thrown away.

The reality of you, however, I'm struggling with.

Maybe it's the recycled part.

We all remember this dress. When she showed up at the Oscars in this dress, it made Lizzy Gardiner's name as a costume designer. Although actually, most folks no longer remember her name, just the dress. That said, could she sit down in this dress? Did she have to line it? Where would she keep her tissue for crying beautifically during her acceptance speech? My grandmother would have fretted over whether or not handwashing was required. This dress is now in a design museum in Australia.

I think, Tibet Silk, that you have a little bit of this dress going on.

Or maybe, you are like the Christmas wreaths made of six-pack rings. Or the Christmas wreaths made of shredded grocery bags. Or the Christmas wreaths made of accordion-folded glossy magazine pages. Or the Christmas wreaths ... you get the idea.

Or maybe it's me.

Maybe you've come into my life, Tibet Silk, to teach me something about my need for structure and control.

I have trouble dealing with your overspun habits of twisting and snarling then suddenly unravelling. I'm not crazy about the wood chips that pop up from time to time. Yet I'm wondering if I'm imposing my Western notions of fiber on you. But really, if knitting is meditative, and I have to stop knitting after every row (and they were very short rows) to unsnarl the yarn, and I get a sudden drop in my stomach when I realize I've unsnarled too much, and you're coming apart, you're not really meeting my definition of meditative.

That's the process though, and knitting is also about product, at least a little bit.

The product part is bugging me too, Tibet Silk, and I don't know what to do. I finally allowed myself worthy enough to buy one hank, just one hank of you along with a pattern for these gauntlets. A few months later and you're fuzzing, Tibet Silk--fuzzing badly--which makes it hard to see the lovely twisted rib stitch I used.

And you're sagging a bit. Getting stretched out. Making me feel like I have fat hands.



Your color too is a problem for me. Like I said, it may not be you though; maybe it's me. I like color and I know I need to let more randomness into my knitting and into my life, but I haven't yet decided if these guantlets feel pretty to me. If you mix colors up too much, you get mud. I'm not even sure if the two gauntlets could be considered to match, even though the yarn came from one hank.

So I'm faced with a dilemma, Tibet Silk. I want to make the short row bag. You look so pretty in the picture with your lovely ribbed rows radiating out.

I'm afraid I know what will happen though. I will spend almost $60 on the yarn and you'll spend many hours on the pins. Some swearing will happen, and then we'll be done. You'll make a cute bag for a day or so, then you'll fuzz and sag, and I'll be very, very sad. I'll curse myself for not listening to my instincts. I won't want to carry you and you will find yourself on a hook in the back of the closet. You won't even merit the design museum in Australia--not even close.

I'm letting go of you Tibet Silk. It's not really the end though. I've decided to use a wool-silk. And the silk will remind me of you: Nubby, shimmery, spontaneous, and bringing joy into the universe.