Knit two, purl two. Knit one black, knit three gray. Purl one, Slip one. Purl one. Pull the slipped stitch over. Purl, purl, purl, purl…
These words make up the clamor in my head as I knit my very first sock; these words give my hands the instructions they need to manipulate the dyed strands of Icelandic sheep wool into a functional piece of art.
Knitting brings me peace and, unless I’m otherwise occupied, helps me reflect. Just as I started a new beginning with this sock project, I started a new beginning to a temporary life here at Sólheimar, knitting the first row at home with preconceived notions that the capital city always seems to be a relentlessly unwavering 36 degrees F, that more people live in Colorado Springs than in all of Iceland, that the eco-village we’re living in is comprised of only 100 people, 40 of whom are mentally or physically disabled and that road work is sometimes cancelled because citizens are worried it may disturb the elves (that more than half of the country believe in). These stitches barely shape any recognizable structure (only excitement for what is to come), but as I get to Iceland and weave new experiences into this preexisting story, the top of the sock begins to take form. I notice that Icelandic mountains often look like unfinished paint-by-number pieces and that ice creepers might need to act as permanent fixtures on my boots. I then start to stitch in things like the northern lights, discussions of nature and spirit, and a couple of useful Icelandic phrases. I add in a colored stripe of initial impressions of community members and peers, and the basics of Icelandic geology. I knit the perpetual feeling of dawn or dusk in these winter months; I purl awe-inspiring hikes; I knit a better understanding of the global financial crisis; I purl the concept of an ecological footprint; I knit late-night guitar sing-alongs; I purl the feeling of standing behind a waterfall before sunrise. I go on and on like this—knitting and purling, knitting and purling—and I hardly pay attention to each individual stitch, but rather see the encompassing progress.
In the moment of jubilation that came with finishing my last Kitchener stitch, I not only connected the toe of my now-completed sock, but I also connected the knitting of my sock to the knitting of my experience here in Iceland. While I completed my first tangible sock, there is much to come in the future of my experiential one. I look forward to adding stitches, dropping some, making changes to my pattern, accepting some quirky imperfections, unraveling and trying again, turning the heel, and stitching together a final product that is practical, portable, personal, and proud.
Some stitches in the first few rows of this experience:
