In the dimming days of winter, many of us turn to
the screen for warmth and comfort, much the way our ancestors turned to the
hearth. Movie rentals increase, video game sales spike, and computers — with
their instant access to e-mail and the Internet — take on new significance.
It’s easier to stay inside and sit ‘n’ click than it is to go outside and slip
‘n’ slide.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย But
the flickering screen does not make a good substitute for human interaction. I
know because I’ve been relying on e-mail too much. In order to get work done
this fall, I started my hibernation early, spending more time at my desk and
less time hanging out with friends. I moved my social life to e-mail and it
didn’t take long before I learned the truth about the Internet’s false promise
of connection and intimacy.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย E-mails
aren’t crafted, they’re dashed off. E-mails lack more than just punctuation and
proper spelling. They lack the texture of conversation: the facial expressions,
body language, and voices. These hurried missives can lead to misunderstandings
and disconnection.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Luckily,
I’ve found an antidote to our seasonal reliance on technology in general and on
e-mail in specific: knitting.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Hey,
don’t laugh. No one is more surprised than I am. Before I started knitting a
few weeks ago, I was the first one to sneer at those sensible-looking women who
knit in waiting rooms and on airplanes. And, as a mother and the daughter of
strident feminists, I had to make damn sure this was a female stereotype I
wanted to reinforce. In my childhood home, if anyone was going to knit it was
my father. But he was too busy shopping and cooking.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Times
have changed. I can take up a traditionally female craft safe in the knowledge
that doing so will not threaten the gains women have made. In fact, it’s
strengthening my relationships with other women. Although it’s easy to learn,
knitting is hard to master. I’ve had to visit the yarn shop several times with
questions, and the owners and other customers are helpful and generous with
their time. My next-door neighbor, a knitter par excellence, took me under her wing and now I’m cranking out
scarves. Every few days I bring another knit creation to the bus stop where the
other parents ooh and aah, and sometimes offer helpful pointers.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย “You
should rip out this bunched-up section,” someone suggested.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย “Redo
this scarf only use different yarn and larger needles,” my next-door neighbor
said.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย It’s
ironic that this humble, retro craft put me in closer contact with people than
all those hours spent maintaining e-mail friendships and reading stupid spams.
You’d think that, compared to writing to friends, knitting would be a fairly
solitary activity. But in addition to the kibitzing, knitting makes me feel
closer to my inner circle because I’m making them scarves as holiday gifts. I
think about them when I knit. And I think about them when I mess up. And I
think about them further still when I impatiently yank out several rows and
start all over. E-mail, to its credit, is never this hard.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Why
knitting, why now? The onset of winter and the holidays always make me want to
do something sedentary and cozy, usually involving a large amount of Dutch
cocoa. Knitting not only
accommodates my hot-chocolate lifestyle, it can act as a metaphor for email.
Consider the “reply” function. If you and the person you write to reply to each
other without erasing the previous missive, the e-mail grows longer and longer,
like a scarf. It’s as if — to introduce another textile metaphor — you’re
both weaving, passing a wooden shuttle through the loom of cyberspace, making a
long scarf. Each reply adds another stripe of words to the conversation.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย But
e-mail is false knitting. Because we churn out quick responses, forward dirty
jokes, and issue calls to action without a second thought, these e-mail scarves
are full of holes. Holes where there should be thought and consideration. Holes
where there should be facial expressions and intonation. Real scarves, if they
have holes — and I’m not saying mine do — are authentic. Their holes were
made with love.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย If
love was one ingredient in the sweaters my Italian grandmother knit me, the
other was ugly, itchy wool. Luckily now there are hundreds of seductive textures
and colors: eyelash yarn with tiny clumps of fluttering fringe, yarn shot
through with shimmery gold or silver thread, and colorful pom-pom yarn that
makes a festival out of every finished product. These lively yarns are
forgiving; If I need to, I can hide the occasional flaw among their dazzling
colors and textures. As if.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย So,
this winter I’m knitting instead of hunching over my laptop seeking warmth.
Hanging around the computer just doesn’t compare with the simple pleasure of
listening to music (I recommend Sean Paul’s Dutty
Rock) and thinking about someone I love while knitting him or her a scarf
for Christmas. I’ve made one for my mother (muted blues with a strand of
silver) and am working on one for my little brother (grunge-brown with flecks
of red and yellow).
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย You’d
think that my husband and kids, who have witnessed miles of knitting pouring
off my needles, would have requested scarves by now. They probably don’t want
to appear pushy. I was tickled, though, when my husband recently showed a genuine
interest in my new hobby. “Is it supposed to be that lumpy?” he said.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Of
course I expect my mother, brother, and friends will wear their new scarves
proudly, lumps or no. And if they don’t, I might have to forward them the “25
Truths to Life” spam (“1. If you’re too open-minded your brains will fall out”)
or perhaps the bullying “Nice Person” spam that demands a reply as proof of
friendship.
This article appears in Nov 19-25, 2003.
