One of my earliest memories as a child is being in the cellar at my Mormor’s while she wound yarns or sat at the loom weaving. I can still smell the unique combination of dust, wool, and the log burner. And I remember the clickety-clack of the treadles and the rhythmic beating of the batten. These were the comforting scents and sounds of every holiday of my childhood. Thanks to my Mormor’s art and creativity, our family always had a wide selection of textiles, clothes, and decorative woven wall hangings.
I didn’t know then the impact this would have on the rest of my life.
Now I have my own stash of yarns and fabrics, even one of my Mormor’s old looms (although taken apart and stored in pieces in my sewing room). I like the idea of my life being stitched together with hers by the threads I work with, the yarn representing and connecting our tales.
The past few weeks, I’ve been knitting a jumper for my niece’s third birthday. Seeing photos of this tiny human in the jumper, a couple of sizes too big, I realise the thread that connects me to my Mormor is strong enough to hold her great-grandchildren’s generation too.
I’m holding a good yarn, indeed.
I look at my hands; they are bigger and more worn out now compared to when I used to watch my Mormor weave her textiles. But they are far from as experienced or hardworking as hers were; they still have much to learn and create. I’ll continue to knit on her river for a good while yet before it runs into the sea.