The pandemic has brought into focus something that has been missing from my life: I don’t have a hobby. I don’t make time to do something simply for the sake of being creative. It has come to my attention recently that perhaps I need to chill out. Fine.

Picking a hobby shouldn’t be hard, but you know if anybody could make it hard, it’s going to be me. I am not crafty, artistic or skilled. I don’t scrapbook. I cannot paint, draw, crochet or sew. I don’t construct pretty decorations.  One bad incident with a hot glue gun and now nobody will let me try (the cat was fine, by the way). I don’t bake. Not a big fan of cooking. I don’t collect anything, except a big bag of dryer lint that gives me a weird satisfaction. I can’t afford to do anything extravagant, like shopping (it’s a hobby, you know it is).

I’m not allowed near power tools (fair enough) or sharp objects (probably wise) or the garage for that matter. The Carpenter is very protective of his domain. He doesn’t really like me in his garden either. He has a few hobbies and I’m not invited to participate in any of them. Fine.

Here’s the issue: I don’t have a talent that translates into an activity that quantifies as a hobby. I don’t have a skill or an aptitude. I get by on adequacy.

Now that I’ve become an introvert, I don’t socialize beyond my family bubble. Apparently, going stir-crazy is not considered exercise or productive. With winter approaching, I knew I needed something to keep me out of trouble. Out of respect for my housemates, I needed to find a hobby that keeps me mellow yet active and mindfully engaged. Hmph.

When I was a little girl, my aunt taught me to knit. I adored her. She was beautiful, kind and patient. Time with her made me feel special. I fondly recall sitting in her farmhouse kitchen, learning from her, watching the way her hands worked those knitting needles with speed and grace, the sound of the needles tapping each other. I cannot remember much else beyond a simple knit and purl, and how much I enjoyed it.

So, I enlisted the help of my daughter. She learned to knit in school. She also knows that everything you need to know about anything is on YouTube. We’re learning together. We picked out our sets of knitting needles and two skeins (thank you Google) of rainbow-coloured yarn. Now every night, we sit together, chat and knit. The best part is, we have no goal beyond getting to the end of the yarn. I’m not making anything or  counting anything. My only goal is to practice knitting by trial and error and not quit. Good thing, too, because I’m terrible at it. I don’t care. Knitting is unbelievably relaxing. It’s soothing. No phones allowed.

Soon I will complete one very long, misshapen, rainbow-coloured not-quite-a-scarf thing, with sporadic holes (for ventilation of course) and absolutely no purpose beyond the satisfaction of having created Kelly art.

The Carpenter doesn’t comment because knitting needles have pointy ends and can be thrown, kind of like darts. Trust me. I tested them.

But he is sure going to love his Christmas gift.

WriteOut of Her Mind