The following post owes a debt of gratitude to Franklin .
Reading his post resurrected some memories that had been temporarily misplaced.
When I was 7 we lived in Spain. My parents were determined to take advantage of this great opportunity to travel around as much as possible and show us the wealth of history and art that was available outside our native Texas. I have always appreciated the effort as well as the fact that I was allowed to attend the local village school. I am not always convinced however that the lessons learned were the ones my parents would have wished for me.
We went to Granada to see The Alhambra. I know we did this as I have been reminded of it many times. I don’t remember the city of Granada nor the actual structure of The Alhambra itself. I remember remarkable little of this great monument and yet it is etched permanently in my mind. I remember a floor. I remember that floor vividly. I can conjure it up in my mind on a moment’s notice. I don’t remember what my parents were looking at or whatever else was happening around me when I noticed that floor and yet that floor has become a permanent part of my makeup.
When I returned to Granada 25 years later I was eager to see the Alhambra and find out if I remembered the floor correctly. As we walked up the hill from our hotel to the Alhambra nothing looked familiar; the same as we ventured inside. There were many different floors in many patterns, but not the floor of memory. Initially I was disappointed. I assumed that since The Floor held such a high place in my memory it must be in an important room, a floor in a place of honor. Finally I found it. It was exactly as I remembered. I stopped. I walked around the room. I stopped again. Memories flooded back, not so much of things, but of place. This room, this floor, was MINE, in some mystical way I could not account for. This was something like the feeling one encounters in the Rothko Chapel in Houston. A feeling of belonging, as if one should always be THERE. George left, not realizing that I was not following behind, and came back. The room was otherwise insignificant, yet we spent a considerable amount of time there.
I had not yet learned to knit at that time. Thinking about it now, I realize that the floor could be charted into a nice knitting pattern. I may have to go back. Or I can just do it from memory and make the design truly my own. I tend to see knitting patterns everywhere, in the patterns of rocks, leaves or trees. I once collected photos of trees just because they made me think of knitting patterns. I think there is one vacation where there are no photos of interest about where we went or what we did, just trees that captured my imagination. I am not trustworthy with a camera..
At Bard last summer, during one of the concerts in Olin Hall, I was sitting staring at the stage. Actually I was lost in thought (the music was not that inspiring at that moment) looking at the columns and the variations in width and spacing between them, combined with the play of the afternoon light as it came through the windows on the side, casting shadows across the back of the stage. Some the shadows were tinged in shades of greens reflected from the trees outside the windows. The whites and ecru shades of the wall, with the graying and greening of the shadows was entrancing. Again I thought of cables and subtle color work. I must be knit-brained.
Will I ever knit all these sweaters? Not likely I have little pieces of paper collected in a box where I have sketched this idea or that, little lost leaves of thought. Sometimes I have purchased a particular skein of yarn just because it reminded me of one of these assorted knitting wisps. They sit, waiting patiently, knowing that someday something wonderful will be born.
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