Waste Not, Want Not

I used to like the idea of yarn bombing.  It was sweet and full of whimsy.  It was a constant reminder for people to 1) Stop and look at the world around them, and 2) Think about knitting and 3) smile.  Perhaps there was a bit of civil disobedience in there, too.  Graffiti with a warm and cozy bent.  Indie meets Granny.


But then I saw this:


http://blueskyalpacas.com/bluesletter/2012/03/helsinkis-cathedral-finland/?utm_source=Blue%20Sky%20News&utm_campaign=160d9b3275-UA-2541404-1&utm_medium=email 


And, for me, it threw the whole practice into (rather stark) perspective.  I noticed the people in the pictures walking on the afghans, and then I thought about rain and the elements.  Fading in the sun.  Dust and bugs and stray doggies.  And dirt or gum or worse on those people's shoes.  And I thought, wow.  That's actually sort of a tragedy.  All that lovely work, lost to wear and tear and spoil and ruin.


Oh, I know that none of the items we make last forever.  In fact, some items may last less than one lifetime, for the accidental felting or the dog getting peckish or something.  But this ... this was different.


Skeins and skeins.  Miles and miles of yarn.  Hundreds of warm blankets that serve a much better purpose on the back of a couch than on the steps of a cathedral.  It made me so sad.


Granted, you're talking to a woman who feels guilty throwing away even the smallest scrap of yarn.  I think about how it could be used for stuffing, or patching up a small hole in the item I knit with it, years from now.  I am not a hoarder, but I am somewhat of a sentimental pack rat.  And I get attached to my yarn.  I'm very choosy about yarn, and seeing leftover yarn reminds me of the project I knit with it, and I remember all the things I was doing while knitting that item, and what I was feeling, and what I was going through at that time.  I truly believe that you pour your heart and soul into your knitting.


When I was at Rhinebeck last year, I met a wonderful gentleman selling yarn, who had the most absolutely beautifully stunning pair of kilt socks (stockings?) proudly displayed in his booth.  And he told my mother and me that he had won a raffle in which the knitter promised any custom hand-knitted item of the winner's choice.  And he chose that pattern, but he specified to the knitter that she must only work on them when she was happy or joyful or in a good mood.  He didn't care how long it took, he wanted only that spirit to be stitched into his socks.  I knew exactly what he was saying.


When I work on a prayer shawl (and sad to admit it has been a while) but when I did, I felt that same desire for spiritual power to flow through me to the article, and in turn to the recipient.  Prayer shawls have a simple pattern - cast on 169 stitches in a Lion's Brand Homespun yarn, work knit 3 purl 3 (not rib) straight on through to the end until you've knit three skeins' worth.  It's so simple that it's meditative.  I know that whoever designed the first prayer shawl must have meant it that way.  You get into such a rhythm that you are no longer paying attention to your hands and yarn and needles, but you're in another plane of existence.  I think that whenever I pray, that's where I should be.  I'll also admit: it doesn't always happen that way.  But I've felt the most powerful presence of God when I'm there, in that rhythm.  When my mind is focused on healing and peace and joy and comfort and all the best gifts that we could ever receive from heaven.  


So for me, I guess the smallest yarn bomb or the "world's largest whatever" goes beyond the spoil of the fiber or the spent time and effort or the utility of the tree cozy or lamppost cozy or bicycle cozy or hundreds of afghans.  It's a waste of the spirit.  Because inevitably, that piece of yourself - it's removed.  It's thrown away.


And perhaps I'm wrong; perhaps I need to remember that each knitter has the power over their artwork.  They decide what happens to it.  My heart aches at the thought of yarn in a landfill.  But certainly the artist secretly seaming a sweater on a solemn statue doesn't consider it anything less than art: pure, surprising, and simple.  So really ... it's me.  It's a war in my heart and mind and a question that I really should answer for myself.  Comedy or tragedy?


What do you think about yarn bombing?  Have you ever done it?  What made you start, and why does it appeal to you?