Making: Forest Canopy Shawl for Mother's Day

I've been waiting to blog about this one - I finished this weeks ago, but since it was for my mother, and she reads this blog, I had to wait.  I must say, this has been the most challenging and gratifying project I've knitted.  Being new to lace knitting, I had no idea what to expect.  But the pattern for the Forest Canopy Shawl is perfect for first time lace knitters.  Here the link for the pattern.

This is what it looked like while still on the needles... pretty darn unimpressive.  And all those red threads?  Those are life lines that I kept putting in to hold my place in case I had to rip back due to some horrible mistake.  And, believe me, I had to rip back.  Luckily, I got better as I went along, and ripped back less and less.  In the beginning I was so discouraged, and knitting seemed like it had become an exercise in futility and frustration.  I almost decided that I was simply not a lace knitter.  Sweaters and mittens I could do.  Lace?  Why do something that makes you curse and throw things?

But something magical happened when I finally slipped it off the needles, washed, and then blocked it (on a hideous old mattress, I must say).  The lace opened up.  The pattern came out.  And I thought: I made that?  As an academician, these moments are hard to come by.  Rarely do I write something or argue something and think: There, that's settled.  That's correct.  In fact, the whole enterprise of research and theory requires that we keep questioning our work.  It can be rewarding, no doubt, but there's a certain oomph of finality that's lacking.  This is why I gravitate towards knitting and baking: these are crafts where the question (can I do this?) gets firmly answered (yes! no!) at least to a more certain degree.  Of course, I'm sure the deeper I go into either of these crafts the more I will find that is theoretical and debatable, especially as craft moves towards art.  But, for the time being, it is very, very satisfying to say: I made this! 

We took these on the Philosophenweg, in the forest, in honor of its name.  I call my individual shawl, however, the Sea Canopy, given its wonderful shades of blue.

Raveled here.

Wandering: Der Philosophenweg im Frühling (The Philosophers' Way in Spring)

Across the river and up, up, up the Schlangenweg (Snake Path) is the Philosophenweg.  I've wandered upon it many times these past few weeks.  Somehow I find myself chancing upon epiphanies and new ideas when I hike this path, even though I've taken to it to "get away" and clear my head.  I suppose it is aptly named and it works a type of enchantment with its meandering curves.

Now, in the early spring, the path seems especially enchanted.  Yesterday afternoon, with the sun reaching in through the bright green canopy, whispers seemed to swirl around me, and little movements in the undergrowth quickened as I approached and then grew silent.

 Across the valley, most trees are still quiet and sleeping, but a battalion of pines marches down the slope.

Once I see these pleading branches above me, I know that my walk is almost over.  Then I take the sloping path down to Haarlass, then back along the Neckar River, across the Old Bridge, and back into my study.  But I'm not quite sure that the enchantment doesn't last for a few hours more, ebbing away slowly while I go about the rest of my day.

Der Philosophenweg

There's a hiking path across the river from the Old City called "The Philosopher's Way." Part of it weaves through gardens and orchards and gives great views of the castle and the city. Part of it dives into the forest, with tall, tall trees and little undergrowth . . .

It starts out on a winding alley, called the Snake Path, going up, up, up the side of the hill.

Mounds of moss are magical woodland worlds in miniature.

At the tail end of autumn, the path is littered with leaves. Night falls quickly, and within just a few minutes we were plunged into darkness amidst the trees. Suddenly it felt as if we could be in any century - there were no lights, no sound. It was easy then to understand why people once venerated and feared the forest, why they told stories of beasts and horrors creeping out from it, why the glow of a village could be so comforting. This was the first time I felt that the "Old World" felt really, really old. This hadn't happened while looking at ruins or old city walls. Instead, I felt it in the forest, in something that has evoked fear, awe, and worship for time out of mind.

Thankfully, there was some respite from the darkness - there's a small vineyard at the end of one path. Here, in the clearing, we could see the old city in the valley below.