WHAT I TREASURE
My wool stash by Ottavia Moll
On the back of the door of the clothes closet I share with my boyfriend hangs my wool stash. Like many knitters, I view it as treasure, yet a glint of guilt comes with the shine. A reminder of not finding enough time to knit. A little fear that one day my boyfriend may question the burgeoning quantity ( he never has).
I started knitting about four years ago and very quickly it became a passion, a creative release and a meditation. I knit throughout autumn, winter and early spring and have made many items for friends and family, part of the reason I treasure this stash. As I open the bags at the start of a new knitting season, I paw through these old threads and remember the items they created: the remnants of wool used for my niece’s jumper, a pair of socks I made for a friend and the first garment I ever knitted. I remember the obstacles I had to overcome and how they helped me grow as a knitter.
Soon after this reverie, a bigger piece of ‘treasure’ catches my eye. A chubby bag of new wool entices me to squeeze it and look inside. These are the bags of untouched yarn that I was unable to resist or bought during the summer sales in anticipation of the long knitting months. I love holding them to my cheeks, feeling the luxury of the fresh material and then putting colours together in different formations as possibilities race through my mind. I imagine the completed article and sometimes take pleasure in rearranging my stash so that each drawstring bag holds a project, like an egg sack ready to spring into creation.
Also within my stash there is wool that I’ve never been able to knit. This is the wool that my mother picked from the fences of the Highlands of Scotland, then washed and popped in a bag ready for her holiday here with me in Italy. Once here, she pulls out the fluffy fleeces and begin to card and then hand spin, effortlessly flicking the spindle from her thigh to the floor as she natters away about news from home. My mother spins wool mainly to weave – she is not a knitter. Often as she talks, I will be knitting and there is an arms-length appreciation for each other’s craft. When she returns to Scotland, my mother always leaves some wool behind and it moves into my stash but somehow, I can’t knit it. It smells too honest, the colours are too raw and its roughness holds me back. Yet, at the same time, this is the most precious wool I have and I know that, one day, its time will come.
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