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Sometimes you need a cow.

There’s a lot I’ve thought about trying to say over the past week or two.  Some of it is self-evident, but takes on a new, urgent depth of meaning.  Some of it is trite and pointless.  Some of it is not something you can say out loud.  And, of course, some of it is just swearing.  This has been a hard fortnight.

So I knitted a cow.

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She’s adorable, with a tiny little cow udder, with little perky cow nipples.

I can’t change much in the world.  I can try to live with compassion and empathy and love, but I can’t, on my own, save the whales, mend the ozone layer and heal the sick and dying.  So I knit.  Each stitch I make is something that wasn’t there before, and if I do enough of them, suddenly there’s a whole significant something that wasn’t there before.

Here’s a cow that wasn’t there before.

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Just because I sat down and made some stitches, I’ve made a cow.  I’ve taken string and turned it into something that wasn’t there before: something that makes people I love smile, and they pick up the cow and dance it along the table, or waggle it at the dog.

Something I made, that wasn’t here before, is here now and helping make the people I love smile.  So knitting isn’t much, but if I wasn’t doing it, those people I love wouldn’t be smiling their smiles. So it helps a bit.

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