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When I was a child I often sat near my grandmother as she knitted by the window. Her hands moved with calm skill, turning plain thread into patterns full of life. At that time I did not understand her words. She spoke of love, loss, and waiting as her needles clicked. Today those moments feel like a song I finally know by heart.

Knitting as a Mirror of Life
Knitting is more than wool and needles. It begins with one thin thread that grows into fabric. I see now that we live in the same way. Each worry, each grief, each joy becomes part of our pattern.

The work is not always simple. At times threads tangle. At times a break appears. Still, it is the act of weaving that gives meaning. Each stitch adds shape to the self we carry forward.

Childhood Colors That Faded
As a child, I found joy in colors. I filled blank pages with bright shades. The paper came alive with every stroke. Life then felt simple.

Now, I wonder where those colors went. Why does it feel harder to reach them? The shades did not vanish. Growing older only made them harder to find. The ease of childhood gave way to thought, to fear, and to longing.

Reflections That Keep Changing
Each self I know feels different from the one before. My thoughts shift. My choices change. My fears grow and shrink with time. No reflection remains the same.

There are days when I stop weaving new designs. Days when I put away the thread and live with a version of me that feels distant. Yet even then, the thread waits. It sits in memory, waiting for me to lift it again.
The Role of Choice
Every person chooses what to do with their threads. Some avoid them. Some weave without care and end with knots. Others take time to shape fabric that endures.

The path is not easy. Yet the act of choosing gives shape to who we are. To stop weaving is to stop growing. To hide the colors is to live in black and white. The way forward begins with the needle, even when its pull hurts.

The Pattern Ahead
When I picture my scenery now, I see both knitting and coloring. Knitting shows patience as threads join to grow strong. Coloring shows joy as blank space fills with life. Both are lessons. Both remind me that the self does not stay fixed.

The Question of SelfI ask myself if what I feel is emotion or reaction. Maybe it is both. The mind does not fit neat labels. What I know is simple: the threads and colors are real. They live inside, waiting. Weaving is not perfection. It is honesty. It is choosing to touch the thread, to accept knots and breaks, to keep moving. That is how self takes form.

The question is not if I can paint as I once did. The question is if I will try again. The thread is still here. The colors are still waiting. The design is mine to weave