KnittyPurl

  • Knitting Update: Moving Past the Yoke on the Autumn Valley Sweater

    There’s a special kind of joy that comes from watching a sweater grow on your needles—row by row, cable by cable—until suddenly, you reach a milestone moment. This week, that moment arrived: the yoke and cable section of my Autumn Valley Sweater by Drops Design is officially complete!

    This pattern’s yoke is such a satisfying blend of structure and rhythm. The cables twist and flow just enough to keep the knitting engaging without feeling overwhelming. Every few rows, I’d pause and admire how the texture caught the light—helped along beautifully by the yarn I’m using: Celtic Yarns Irish Aran in the Bluebells colorway.

    Bluebells has this gentle, heathered depth that makes cables bloom. It’s soft but sturdy, rustic yet refined—exactly the kind of yarn that transforms a classic design into something truly heirloom-worthy.

    Now that the yoke is finished, I’m happily cruising into the body section. There’s something meditative about this stage: the rhythm settles, the fabric grows more quickly, and you can finally start imagining the cozy finished sweater taking shape. I love this middle stretch of a project—the part where knitting becomes a companionable background hum to the day.

    If you’ve been thinking about casting on the Autumn Valley Sweater, consider this your sign. And if you’re looking for a yarn that makes every stitch shine, our Celtic Yarns Irish Aran might just be your new favorite.

    Stay tuned—I’ll share another update once the body is done and it’s time for sleeves

  • Choosing My Path Forward: Hope, Healing, and Hard Decisions

    When faced with cancer, you quickly learn that there are no easy choices — only the ones that feel right for you, in this moment. Recently, I reached a crossroads in my treatment for rectal cancer. My doctors presented two options: surgery to remove all of the cancer, which would mean living permanently with a colostomy bag, or continuing with chemotherapy and radiation in hopes that the tumor will shrink further.

    Both paths carry risks, uncertainties, and emotional weight. Surgery offers a more immediate sense of finality — removing the cancer completely — but it also comes with a life-changing adjustment. Continuing treatment keeps open the possibility of avoiding permanent surgery, though it doesn’t guarantee that outcome.

    After many conversations, sleepless nights, and quiet moments of reflection, I’ve chosen to continue with chemo and radiation. It’s a decision rooted in hope — hope that the tumor will respond, that my body will keep fighting, and that I can preserve as much of my life as possible as it is now.

    This choice isn’t about fear of surgery. It’s about listening to my intuition and honoring what feels right for me right now. I know that the road ahead won’t be easy. There may still be surgery in my future — and if that’s what’s required, I’ll face it when the time comes. But for now, I’m giving chemo and radiation their chance to work.

    I’m grateful for the incredible care team supporting me, for the science that makes these options possible, and for the friends and family who continue to lift me up through it all.

    Cancer teaches you to live in the “what is,” not the “what if.” Today, what is — is hope.

  • On my own

    Today was my first chemotherapy session without Mom sitting beside me. She’s been with me every step of the way—holding my hand, fetching snacks, chatting with nurses, and making sure I’m as comfortable as possible. But this week, she’s taking a well-deserved break to play with all the yarn.

    It felt strange walking into the clinic alone. The familiar sights and sounds—the soft hum of machines, the squeak of the nurse’s shoes, the gentle rhythm of the infusion pumps—were the same. But without Mom’s constant quiet presence, everything felt just a little different.

    At first, I caught myself glancing at the empty chair next to me, expecting her to appear with her knitting bag and a bottle of water. Then, something shifted. I realized I was okay. I could do this.

    I settled in, zipped up my maroon jacket, adjusted my hat, and queued up my playlist. The nurses checked on me like they always do—kind, reassuring, efficient. And in that moment, I felt a flicker of pride. I wasn’t just getting through another treatment; I was proving to myself that I could handle it, even without my safety net right beside me.

    Don’t get me wrong—I’ll be happy to have Mom back next time. But today reminded me that strength isn’t always loud or dramatic. Sometimes, it’s just sitting quietly in a chair, connected to an IV, breathing through it, and knowing you’re enough.

    One treatment closer. One step at a time.

  • Slow and Steady: Knitting the Autumn Valley Sweater

    Progress on my Autumn Valley Sweater by DROPS Design has been… well, let’s just call it leisurely. The gorgeous cables are inching their way off my needles at the pace of a sleepy tortoise, and honestly, I’m okay with that.

    I’m knitting this one in Dachshund Daddy Knits Irish Aran, a wool spun in County Kerry, Ireland, with all the rustic charm and lanolin-laced warmth you could wish for. The yarn is the sort that feels like it has history—soft but sturdy, with that just-right texture that makes cables stand tall and proud. Every twist and turn of the pattern shows off the Irish character in the wool, even if my fingers are currently working at half speed.

    Thanks to chemotherapy-related neuropathy, knitting has become a bit more of an adventure. My fingertips sometimes feel like they’re wearing invisible mittens, and I occasionally drop a stitch or two (or three). But I keep reminding myself—slow progress is still progress. Each row, each careful cable cross, is a small victory.

    There’s a certain kind of mindfulness that comes with knitting through something like this. When my hands cooperate, the rhythm of the stitches feels grounding, soothing, familiar. And on the days they don’t, I just admire how far I’ve come, pet the squishy fabric, and promise the sweater we’ll get there together—eventually.

    So yes, my Autumn Valley Sweater might not be finished anytime soon. But it’s already doing its job: keeping me connected to the craft I love, one gentle stitch at a time.

  • Rhinebeck (Sort Of): How I’m Attending the Sheep & Wool Festival by Proxy

    This weekend should have smelled like wool, cider donuts, and triumph. It should have been Rhinebeck Sheep & Wool Festival weekend — the knitter’s pilgrimage, the Super Bowl of yarn, the holy grail of fleece. But alas, instead of frolicking among skeins and sheep, I’ll be attending a far less glamorous event: Chemotherapy, Session #Whatever-We’re-On-Now.

    Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for modern medicine — it’s just that oncology wards really need more yarn vendors and apple cider slushies.

    Meanwhile, my mom will be there at Rhinebeck, holding down the fort with the Dachshund Daddy Knits booth. She’ll be surrounded by walls of alpaca, Irish Aran, and enthusiastic knitters showing off their handknits. And yes, I am thrilled for her. And also wildly jealous.

    Mom promised she’d FaceTime me from the festival, which I fully plan to treat like my own personal livestream. I’ll be at home in my comfiest sweater (ironically not handknit — my fingers are still on neuropathy hiatus), sipping coffee, shouting things like, “TURN THE CAMERA! IS THAT THE MOHAIR BOOTH?!” and “GET CLOSER! I THINK I SEE A SHEEP IN A SWEATER!”

    Honestly, it’s the next best thing to being there in person. Mom’s got a good eye for yarn and a generous heart, which is dangerous — I can already hear her saying, ‘Oh, I just picked up a skein for you.’ (Translation: wishful thinking, as she will be too busy manning the booth to do much shopping, sadly.)

    So while she’s chatting with fellow fiber lovers and maybe sneaking in a cider donut or three, I’ll be cheering her on from the chemo chair. I might even wear a Rhinebeck-worthy shawl just to keep the spirit alive — because you can’t cancel cozy, even when your body’s busy fighting bigger battles.

    Next year, though? Next year I’m going. I’ll be there with bells on — or at least a really fabulous handknit.

    Until then, I’ll be living vicariously through Mom’s blurry FaceTime feed, drooling over yarn photos, and reminding myself: the wool will wait.

     

  • When the Needles Have to Rest

     

    I didn’t think there would come a day when I couldn’t knit. I’ve knit through long waits, tough days, good news, bad news, and even chemotherapy sessions. But sometimes, the yarn just sits there, quietly judging me from its basket — a soft, colorful reminder that my fingers are on temporary strike.

    Chemotherapy neuropathy, as it turns out, is a mischievous little beast. It’s like my fingertips have decided to wear invisible oven mitts 24/7. Buttons are a challenge. Zippers? Forget it. And knitting — my faithful comfort craft — suddenly feels like trying to thread spaghetti through a keyhole.

    At first, I was stubborn. I told myself, I’ll just knit slower. Slower turned into dropping stitches, which turned into muttering words not fit for polite company. Finally, I set the needles down, sighed, and gave myself permission to rest. That was the hardest part — not the pain, but the pause.

    Because knitting isn’t just a hobby. It’s meditation, creativity, and comfort all twisted into one. It’s how I’ve processed joy, loss, and the endless waiting that comes with cancer treatment. The rhythm of knit and purl has always been my steady heartbeat when everything else wobbled.

    So what do you do when you can’t do the thing that keeps you grounded? You get creative — in other ways. I’ve become an expert yarn admirer, a professional pattern dreamer. I still wind skeins (carefully). I stroke alpaca and imagine what it will become. I make mental lists of future projects, like “The Victory Mittens” or “The Neuropathy Can’t Stop Me Sweater.”

    And honestly? There’s still comfort in that. Knitting isn’t only in the stitches — it’s in the community, the imagination, and the promise that this, too, will pass. The feeling will return to my fingers one day, and when it does, the yarn will still be waiting. Patiently.

    Until then, I’m knitting in my head — one hopeful row at a time.

  • Knitting the Autumn Valley Sweater: Cozy Cables and Irish Charm

    There’s something quietly magical about casting on for a new sweater when the air starts to crisp. My current project—the Autumn Valley Sweater by DROPS Design—is shaping up beautifully, thanks to a yarn that seems to have a soul of its own: Dachshund Daddy Knits Irish Aran, spun in a small mill in County Kerry, Ireland.

    The yarn itself is rustic in the best way—soft enough to wear but hearty enough to remind you it came from real sheep braving real Irish weather. It carries that gentle lanolin scent and a natural texture that makes cables pop in the most satisfying way. You can almost hear the Atlantic wind in its twist.

    As the cables grow beneath my fingers, row by row, I can feel the pattern’s rhythm settle in. The stitches have that old-world sturdiness that makes you believe this sweater could last for decades. And isn’t that the beauty of Irish wool? It connects you to something timeless—farmers, knitters, and spinners who have been perfecting their craft for generations.

    Of course, knitting the Autumn Valley Sweater isn’t exactly a “mindless knit.” Between the cables, chart repeats, and the occasional double-check to make sure I haven’t wandered off track, it demands attention. But it’s the kind of attention that feels grounding—like a quiet conversation between yarn and maker.

    There’s a simple pleasure in seeing the fabric take shape, the soft heathered gray yarn twining into textured valleys and peaks. I can already imagine wearing it on long walks through falling leaves, the sweater holding in warmth like a personal hearth.

    For now, it’s just me, a pair of trusty needles, and a skein of Irish wool whispering stories from across the sea.

     

  • Knitting A Chemotherapy Hat: Stitch by Stitch, Session by Session

    There’s something oddly grounding about knitting in a waiting room. The soft murmur of conversations, the steady hum of hospital air conditioning, and the click-clack of needles — it all weaves together into a kind of calm.

    Today’s project: a basic chemotherapy hat in the most deliciously soft Dachshund Daddy Knits DK Alpaca yarn. It’s the perfect mix of cozy and breathable, with just enough halo to feel like a gentle hug on the head (and trust me, at this point, my head appreciates a good hug).

    Keeping My Fingers Nimble

    I like to think of this as multitasking for wellness: while the doctors and nurses work their magic, I’m keeping my fingers nimble and my needles flexible. There’s a quiet satisfaction in watching the rounds add up — one more inch of fabric, one more moment passed peacefully.

    The simple ribbed brim is meditative, the smooth stockinette above it rhythmic. It’s the kind of knitting that doesn’t demand attention, just gentle companionship. Perfect for a day when you’ve got enough on your mind already.

    Soft alpaca yarn, flexible needles, and a little quiet courage — today’s waiting-room project.

    The Yarn That Cuddles Back

    Let’s talk about this yarn for a second. Dachshund Daddy Knits DK Alpaca is pure comfort — soft, slightly fuzzy, and with a subtle sheen that makes every stitch look intentional (even the ones that may or may not be). It glides on the needles like butter and feels like it’s rooting for you as you knit.

    There’s something beautiful about creating something useful and comforting during treatment — something that will, in a few more rows, be both a hat and a quiet act of care.

    A Hat Full of Hope (and Maybe a Few Loose Ends)

    By the time the IV is done and the last few stitches come together, I’ll hopefully have a new hat — one that carries every bit of patience, humor, and quiet strength from the process.

    Sure, it might not be perfectly symmetrical (who among us is?), but it’ll be warm, handmade, and full of intention. And that’s the best kind of hat there is.

    So here’s to soft yarn, sharp needles, and the small comforts that make long days a little shorter. Stitch by stitch, round by round — we keep going.

     

  • Planning the Autumn Valley Sweater

    There’s something about fall that makes me crave texture — that comforting, woolly kind of texture that only rustic yarn can deliver. So when I spotted the Autumn Valley Sweater by Drops Design, I knew it was the perfect match for a truly special yarn: Dachshund Daddy Knits Irish Aran, a treasure from a small mill in County Kerry, Ireland.

    Just look at it — that rich, heathered twist, full of character and sheepy goodness. You can almost smell the countryside and feel the Atlantic breeze in every strand. It’s the kind of yarn that feels alive in your hands, just waiting to become something cozy and timeless.

    I can already imagine the sweater taking shape: the sturdy stitches, the bold cables and textures that make this pattern shine, and that satisfying weight of a true Aran knit — not too polished, but full of soul. The yarn has that perfect rustic balance, straight from the sheep.

    I’ll admit, I’m a little giddy about casting on. There’s something grounding about knitting with yarn that has a story — wool that’s traveled from Irish sheep to a tiny mill to my needles. It feels like participating in a small, beautiful circle of tradition and care.

    So, here’s the plan: a few swatches (because gauge, my friends), a cup of coffee and a promise to enjoy every single stitch of this project. I’ll keep you posted as Autumn Valley comes to life — one rustic, Irish-flavored row at a time.

  • A Weekend with the Nola Mittens

    There’s something deeply satisfying about finishing a project in a single weekend—especially when that project is as cheerful and cozy as the Nola Mittens. I didn’t exactly plan to knit a pair of mittens in two days, but once I cast on Saturday morning, the yarn, the pattern, and a quiet weekend worked together like destiny on my needles.

    Weekend knitting success — the Nola Mittens, knit one on Saturday, one on Sunday.

    Saturday: Casting On (and Not Stopping)

    Saturday started with a cup of coffee, some bright JaggerSpun Worsted Superwash in the happiest lime green, and the thought, I’ll just get this mitten started. Famous last words, right?

    The pattern is so smooth and intuitive that it’s easy to fall into a rhythm—stockinette that flows, shaping that feels natural, and just enough variety to keep things interesting. I kept telling myself I’d stop after one more round. Then after one more inch. And then, suddenly, I was knitting the decreases at the top.

    By late afternoon, I was holding up a fully finished mitten—warm, squishy, and glowing in that perfect shade of green. There’s nothing quite like that first try-on moment when the stitches come to life.

    Sunday: The Matchmaker Moment

    Of course, a single mitten can’t live alone. So Sunday’s mission was clear: knit its partner.

    The second mitten always feels a little faster—like your hands already know the dance. The stitches just flow. I had it cast on at breakfast, and by lunchtime, it was flying. By late afternoon, I had a complete set.

    Two days. Two mittens. One very content knitter.

    The Joy of a Quick Knit

    There’s something so refreshing about a project that fits neatly between a Saturday morning and a Sunday sunset. No long-term commitment, no lingering guilt—just pure, instant knitting gratification. The Nola Mittens hit that sweet spot: simple enough for relaxed weekend knitting, but polished enough that you feel proud when you weave in the last end.

    A Weekend Well Spent

    By Sunday night, my fingers were a little tired, my heart was full, and my hands were warm in freshly finished mittens. The kind of project that makes you think, I could totally do that again next weekend.

    So if you’re looking for a quick, satisfying knit that you can start and finish before Monday rolls around, give the Nola Mittens a try. Cast on Saturday morning, bind off Sunday night—and spend the whole next week admiring your new favorite pair.