The Problem with Seeds and Skeins

As I planted 940 seeds (ask me how I know this) in flats on Saturday, it occurred to me that seeds are aligned in my brain with yarn in this way:

Seeds aren't little tiny dots, some so small I can scarcely see them even with reading glasses on, let alone count them out one by one (John Jeavons, I will haunt you when I am dead) and plant them in one inch grids.

They're plants. Better yet, seeds are beautiful red peppers, strikingly green chard with red ribs, bouquets of pastel sweetpeas, or HOME GROWN TOMATOES. They are rare and precious and bring color, flavor, aroma and a whole range of very happy emotions to mind.

And thus spake the knitter. Yarn is not twisted strands of (most likely in my collection) animal fiber or strands from the butt of a lepidoptera; it is sweaters against the rain and hats keeping a friend's body heat in and gloves wrapped around mugs of chocolate and it is lace and cables and thick and thin and the most sensuous thing I touch on most days.

Except for bread, the kneading of bread, bread which is clearly not a combination of flour and salt and yeast and water, but a scent radiating from a kitchen and a flake and a crust and a texture with melted butter. Bread, the ingredients I throw my hands into and come out with a velvety bowl of dough that takes the impression of my lifeline.

And my children, who aren't monkeys at all, but living, breathing human spirits with the future walking before them, driving of cars and passing of exams, sports and poetry, love lives and work lives and maybe even procreation.

So I understand addiction. Although I have never been one to think that drugs could take my mind somewhere beneficial and better than this world I see in front of me, I can see and feel and taste how one can become addicted: to this seed, this wool, this bread, these boys.

lgb 2/19/09