Colorful Yarn Quotes

This was the power of the story weaver, Nell realized. An ability to conjure color so that all else seemed to fade.

It’s perfect. Blurred lines; it’s when fact and fiction become indiscernible. Fantasy and reality fade into a color of grey yarn and you become tangled up in it and can’t escape into the world of black and white you desperately need as proof of the reality of life itself.

He wished that he could break out his knitting, but for some reason, people didn’t take you seriously as a warrior when you were knitting. He’d never figured out why. Making socks required four or five double-ended bone needles, and while they weren’t very large, you could probably jam one into someone’s eye if you really wanted to. Not that he would. He’d have to pull the needle out of the sock to do it, and then he’d be left with the grimly fiddly work of rethreading the stitches. Also, washing blood out of wool was possible, but a pain. Still, if he had to suddenly pull out his sword and fend off an attack, there was a chance he’d drop the yarn, and since he’d been feeling masochistic and was using two colors for this current set of socks, there was absolutely no chance the yarn wouldn’t get tangled and then he’d be trying to murder people while chasing the yarn around. And god forbid the tide rose and he went berserk. You never got the knitting untangled after that; you usually just had to throw it away completely.

Earlier today Brigid visited her favorite shop, Knit One Purl Too. She was running out of the fabulous purple Shibui yarn she’d bought last time. The minute she walked in the door and saw all the colorful skeins of yarn bundled along the walls, almost up to the ceiling, she felt her spirits lift. So much color, so much texture—such unlimited possibilities!

Color is a feeling for me. I work by feeling! —Tina, Freia Handpaint Yarns,

In the dark of the night, we're nothing but shadows. My feelings and thoughts are as tangled as unraveled yarn, loose ends and knots and bursts of violent color.

The colors are amazing. This yarn in the passenger seat has perfect browns. It reminds me of your hair.” Livia touched her tresses, wishing they were tangled in his hands.

It was Friday, so the farmers' market was in full autumnal swing, a sea of potted chrysanthemums and bushel after bushel of apples, pears, Fauvist gourds, and pumpkins with erotically fanciful stems. On one table stood galvanized buckets of the year's final roses; on another, skeins of yarn in muted, soulful purples and reds. Walter loved this part of the season- and not just because it was the time of year his restaurant flourished, when people felt the first yearnings to sit by a fire, to eat stew and bread pudding and meatloaf, drink cider and toddies and cocoa. He loved the season's transient intensity, its gaudy colors and tempestuous skies.

When you put beads in your knitting, you are really putting bits of light in your knitting. The gleam and color-play of beads add a whole other dimension that could be demure or outrageous, as you please. Your choice of beads and yarn uniquely expresses your personality. —Sivia Harding, designer and teacher

By connecting to nowhere you must in turn connect to everywhere, in the course of which becoming wise.  Nothing is permanent, but anything is possible.  Everything dies, yet beauty and joy endure. We are incredibly powerful and infinitely weak. Again and again these paradoxes repeat, like colors of yarn in an elaborate woven rug. There

Fan would have expected that one or two of the Girls would have long rebelled at spending a life in a room, would have begged, say, the dentist, to help them steal away, but the funny thing about this existence is that once firmly settled we occupy it with less guard than we know. We watch ourselves routinely brushing our teeth, or coloring the wall, or blowing off the burn from a steaming yarn of soup noodles, and for every moment there is a companion moment that elides onto it, a secret span that deepens the original’s stamp. We feel ever obliged by everyday charges and tasks. They conscript us more and more. We find world enough in a frame. Until at last we take our places at the wheel, or wall, or line, having somewhere forgotten that we can look up.

Earth Again" They are incomprehensible, the things of this earth. The lure of waters. The lure of fruits. Lure of two breasts and the long hair of a maiden. In rouge, in vermillion, in that color of ponds Found only in the Green Lakes near Wilno. An ungraspable multitudes swarm, come together In the crinkles of tree bark, in the telescope's eye, For an endless wedding, For the kindling of eyes, for a sweet dance In the elements of air, sea, earth, and subterranean caves, So that for a short moment there is no death And time does not unreel like a skein of yarn Thrown into an abyss.

Something fell and George was off, barking like a mad dog. What if whoever is back there hurts him? Oh. My. Goodness. If I do die, I can do so happily now. That man’s eyes were so blue—and I swore they changed color. “I made a huge mistake,” Jake said as he took the leash off of George. “I said p-i-z-z-a out loud. And he took off at a fast jog all the way back here from the park right through Ms. Helen’s sprinklers down the street.” And then nothing…no words entered my brain. I sniffed and quickly nodded, like I was about to cry. “Okay. Right. Amen.” Then I forced myself to slow down and not run back to my seat.

God, the Master Weaver. He stretches the yarn and intertwines the colors, the ragged twine with the velvet strings, the pains with the pleasures. Nothing escapes his reach. Every king, despot, weather pattern, and molecule are at his command. He passes the shuttle back and forth across the generations, and as he does, a design emerges. Satan weaves; God reweaves.

The process of weaving a tapestry connects with something primal in our experience as dexterous creatures. There is something sensuous and attractive about tapestry weaving. Its slow rhythm has a very peaceful, repetitive quality to it. And the step-by-step problem-solving nature of the process brings a sense of accomplishment and allows a gentle reconnection with self. The depth of color in a simple piece of yarn, the endless variations of expression when colors are woven next to each other, and the accomplishment of a finished expression that represents something important to you--these are the reasons many of us engage with this historied art form.

Now for the yarn,” Dawn said, heading over to a wall of solid-colored yarns. “Wool is the easiest fiber to work with, but you want one that doesn’t split too much when you’re just starting out. This Plymouth Encore Chunky is nice for learning on.

the bit of colorful yarn her husband had tied around her finger more than replaced it. Love, after all, was often made not of shiny things but practical ones

in a colorful scarf and an oversized beige sweater that made me look like I was the guest speaker at the Yarn of the Month Club

fall out of a pocket or a fold of towels. In her heart, the bit of colorful yarn her husband had tied around her finger more than replaced it. Love, after all, was often made not of shiny things but practical ones. Ones that grew old and rusted only to be repaired and polished. Things that got lost and had to be replaced on a regular basis.

You’re a fire witch, my dear.”  Moira looked up, tea preparations on automatic pilot.  “Not all fire witches are the same, of course, but you tend to share affinities.  Spicy things to tease your palate, warm colors to soothe your eyes, a ball of lovely yarn under your fingers, and of course a need for light and warmth…

weight yarn (acrylic) – Main color -25 grams sport weight

crochet hook (U.S. H) -100 grams sport weight yarn (acrylic) – Main color -25 grams sport weight

Lucia's abuela chortled, and her mother gave him a playful smack on the arm. But he could see both were pleased. They flanked him as if to escort him to the table. But before they could herd him in that direction, he politely asked permission to give Sanchia the present he'd brought. Identical curious looks sprang into each of the women's eyes, and they stepped back, but crowded behind him to watch the show. Pepe wove through the press of people to kneel before Sanchia and held out the dolly, wrapped in the colorful knitted blanket. Since receiving it, he hadn't peeled back the covering to see Senora Thompson's handiwork, and he was almost as curious as the child. With one finger, the girl traced a line of yellow yarn knitted into the blanket, as if she'd never seen anything so sunny. She looked up at her sister for permission to open the present. At Lucia's nod and encouraging smile, she slowly unwrapped the bundle. The baby lay in splendor, wearing a pink gown and a matching cap and booties. Wonder brightened the little girl's thin, solemn face. She whispered in Lucia's ear, too softly for Pepe to hear. But Lucia's gentle, "Si Sanchia" made her grab the doll to her chest and rock her back and forth.

Then social mores had intervened. A distinct scene from junior high flushes vividly back. Girls sitting out of rotation volleyball in gym class stared at me all gap-mouthed when—of a rainy spring day—I spouted e. e. cummings. Through open green gym doors, sheets of rain erased the parking lot we normally stood staring at as if it were a refrigerator about to manifest food. The poem started: in Just-: spring when the world is mud- luscious… As I went on, Kitty Stanley sat cross-legged in black gym shorts and white blouse, peeling fuchsia polish off her thumbnail with a watchmaker’s precision. She was a mouth breather, Kitty, whose blond bouffant hairdo featured above her bangs a yarn bow the color of a kumquat. That it? Beverly said. Her black-lined gaze looked like an old-timey bandit mask. Indeed, I said. (This was my assholish T. S. Eliot stage circa ninth grade, when I peppered my speech with words I thought sounded British like indeed.) Is that a word, muddy delicious? Kitty said. Mud-luscious, I said. Not no real word, Beverly said, leaning back on both hands, legs crossed. I studied a volleyball arcing white across the gym ceiling and willed it to smash into Beverly’s freakishly round head. It’s squashing together luscious and lush and delicious, and all of it applied to spring mud. It’s poetic license, I said. I think it’s real smart how you learn every word so they come out any time you please, Kitty said. Beverly snorted. I get mud all over Bobby’s truck flaps, and believe you me, delicious don’t figure in. As insults go, it was weak, but Beverly’s facial expression—like she was smelling something—told me to put poetry right back where I’d drug it out from.

I reached for it, but he pulled it from my grasp, inspecting the woven yarn with his dark brown eyes—dark like wet mountain soil, though I noticed a lighter brown around his pupils, a color like the predawn desert, before the sun could turn it gold.