Needles

“I always have a sense of trembling,

but so does a compass after all.”

                             ~ Jerzy Kosinski

     Frieda's needles click clack, big plum colored aluminum knitting needles. She is weaving ribbons of bright cloth, scratchy wool yarn dyed with turmeric, plastic shopping bags, tall blades of grass—anything she can get her hands on. She is making a rug, or perhaps it will turn out to be a wall hanging, she muses. She's been carting it around all summer in her over-sized canvas tote. The project has accompanied us to Swan Lake, Sand beach, and the park by the river in Old Town. This August afternoon, we sit by each other on a grassy bank on Schoodic lake at a friend's camp. Tall waving pines frame our view of the serene expanse of water. We're keeping one eye each on our kids jumping off the dock. Just 50 feet away, the brood is screeching and splashing, scuba masks suction-cupped to their small faces. There are inner tubes and dolphin floaties; there is a pirate ship raft and water squirters. There could be mutiny any moment.

     But for now, at our home base by the picnic table, in padded lawn chairs, we are free of interference. Frieda is content, having something to do with her hands. Click-clack, she pulls a strand of yarn taut, whips a loop around the needle points, straightens out the row and holds it all up at arms' length for assessment. My eyes rove around the picnic table for something to eat, to chew on, to do with my hands. Click-clack. I shift in my chair, stare at dirt between my toes. Those needles are pointing at something; and Frieda is a bit quiet. I twist the thick silver band on my left hand; the skin is raw underneath, worn down. I look up at the wind moving the branches of the pines. I stare at the horizon of the water, consider how many gallons are in Schoodic Lake. Bloody hell, if I simply sit here one minute longer I am certain she will ask me for strands of my own hair to weave into her textile in progress.

     Earlier in the summer, Frieda's sister Nina gave me my first knitting lesson. It was a July afternoon, and we sat by her pool in Winterport. All of the children, peeled out of their wet suits, were now wreaking havoc indoors. Nina gave me thick metal needles, easier to handle for a beginner. We huddled close together on deck chairs, towels wrapped around our wet swimsuits.

     “Ok, to start, you have to 'cast on',” she says brightly. Nina is a knitting fiend, with knitted bands of yarn around the trees in front of her house. She has woven a backgammon board into the side of a knitted bag—how do I jump into that kind of commitment? She is a fanatic, but a good teacher.

     “Got it. Cast on.” Cast off, wax on, wax off, I think to myself. This is more a philosophy, mental training, this knitting thing. But I obediently wrap the yarn around the tips of the needles, paying careful attention not to drop the stitch. She is so patient, showing me again and again how to hang a strand down and keep a tight weave. But it is hot, and here I have a wad of wool yarn on my lap. I love the idea of whipping out glorious scarves and mitts and hats for all my loved ones, but I feel it in my bones that I am not ready to knit yet. Maybe it's just that it's summer and I am too restless to sit still with the wool.

     Yet I dutifully finish a few messy rows of stitches; it looks like a scarf for mouse, a poor mouse who can't afford store-bought. But as we sit by the pool, me the earnest knitting pupil, I quietly watch Frieda and Nina, the sisters. Nina's current project is a gorgeous sweater of earthy-colored wool, wool she acquired from a local sheep farmer named Betty. Nina runs her hands over the first rows of Frieda's rug and tells her she should pull out that last row, “It needs to be tighter, Sis, or it'll make the whole thing look awful when you're done.” Frieda's face goes stock still for half a second, her mouth slightly open, as she looks down at the rug. But then she looks up, at the sincerity in Nina's face, the concern that she will be disappointed in the final product if she doesn't re-do that last row.

     Frieda lets out a long breath, “Aaagh, you're right, Neen. Dammit-all to hell, that grass was a bitch to weave in! Anyone want another gin and tonic?” We all laugh and lean back in our chairs, stretch our legs straight out as Frieda gets up to fetch the pitcher of drinks and we cock our ears for sounds of children crying, or laughing.

     Back at Schoodic Lake, the kids are now squealing and thrashing in a nearby cove. I catch Frieda's eye, and we smile softly. She knows I would give her strands of my hair if she asked. We are easy with each other. She is calm and compassionate, fun-loving and creative. I only wish all my relationships were so comfortable. Frieda tells me I should go for a swim while I have the chance. I get up from the table, leaving her with her knitting, and head down to the dock. I am nearly there when I hear wailing from the cove, and then yelling about who is hogging the big blue water-squirter and who is squirting water in inappropriate places. Frieda rushes down to the cove, again urging me to go for the swim; she's got this one.

     I walk to the end of the dock and stand above the surface of the lake. The air and light are careening, shining, fish gill; they rise to me, weave around me. I swoon a inch, shiver, and recoil for warmth: my toes are the only part of me dangling over the dock's edge.

     It comes to me just then: compass points.  Her needles, they are directional, pointing, moving and working, giving guidance but not answers. Turn this way a little; it's warmer over here. Things are quieter, more peaceful in that direction. I heard them, and felt them in my own hands, telling me to consider a path I am afraid to take.

     Slowly, I sway side to side, on the dock's edge, snap my arms straight up, bend knees, and let the lake have me for the rest of its light.