Learning to Wait

There is a small, circular machine in the corner of my studio that most people who visit never ask about. A metal frame, a wheel of fine steel points, beside the industrial knitting machine next to it. It is called a hand linker, and it is where I close every seam by hand, one stitch at a time, before a piece is finished.

i. The part nobody sees

Linking is the process of joining two knitted edges together, stitch for stitch, so the seam sits flat and moves easily with the fabric. I lift each tiny loop onto a fine point on the machine, one at a time, in order, and then stitch them by hand. To link a cardigan takes considerable time and skill; neck trim, sides, the join where a sleeve meets a body, each one done separately, each one asking for the same close attention as the last.

Every seam takes time, whatever else is waiting for me that day will wait as this process rushed, would show on every seam. A missed loop pulls at the fabric around it for the whole life of the piece, so I have learned to slow my hands to match the actual speed the work requires.

ii. What an hour at the linker actually feels like

My days otherwise move quickly. The school run, emails, a delivery to sign for, phone calls. Sitting down at the hand linker is the one part of my working day that belongs entirely to the stitch in front of me. I count loops. I watch the point of the needle. My attention narrows to the width of a single row of stitches, and for as long as it takes to finish a seam, that is genuinely the whole of what I am thinking about.

At times, this pace has felt frustrating and my thoughts have wandered to time I could spend designing something new, or working on other aspects of the business. But over time, I can see that the pace holds a unique feeling for me. Calm. 

iii. Learning to wait

Patience feels like a skill in the same way a stitch is a skill, something you get better at through repetition. The hand linker has taught me to trust that things take the time, skill and concentration and cannot be rushed. A slow and considered rhythm is what you see in every piece of Cotswold Knit.

I suspect most people have their own version of this somewhere in their week, the slow, repetitive task that asks for full attention and gives something back for it. Mine happens to involve wool and a small machine in the corner of my studio.