Bringing Stories: Knitting as a Gentle Joy and Daily Anchor

Knitting in Tbilisi: Summer Noise, Slow Hands

On hot summer days in Tbilisi, the city is full of sound. Cars rush past, voices echo through open windows, fruit ripens fast under the sun.

Amid this rush, I sit quietly with yarn in my hands. I knit. The slow rhythm calms me. Summer knitting is how I pause. It’s not about finishing things. It’s about returning to myself, about self-care.

Knitting as Meditation and Slow Craft

Knitting is rhythm. Breath. Focus. It’s real. Not a screen. Not a scroll. Just stitches forming one after another.

It’s a slow-living craft that balances the fast pace of the outside world. A choice to go slower. A quiet kind of attention. A grounding ritual for hands and mind.

Summer Knitting Rituals: Preparing for Fall

Summer is when ideas grow. Yarn shops are quiet. I take notes, sketch shapes, touch textures. I knit small things: fingerless gloves, gadget sleeves, headbands. Projects that don’t overheat in my hands.

While the heat blurs the days, I start to imagine October. Market days with warm drinks and people touching wool. Someone will pause, run a hand over a knitted surface and say, “Oh… this feels like home.”

That’s the goal. Not just accessories — but handmade pieces that carry a feeling. Soft, useful, familiar.

Knitting as Quiet Protest and Care

Knitting in the summer feels like quiet resistance. I choose slowness in a season of rush. I choose making — not scrolling.

Knitting is a way to care. I make practical accessories for everyday life. Things that hold warmth. That protect. That soften routines.

This is knitting through the heat to stay grounded— a ritual that keeps me present and restores my focus, one stitch at a time.

A Thread Between Seasons

When the leaves turn and jackets come out, I’ll be ready.

Not because I rushed. But because I started in the heat.

The yarn I use today will become something real. It will warm your hands, your neck, or protect your laptop.

At the autumn market, between candles and sweets, someone will stop at my table. They’ll pick up a case or a mitten and ask, “You made this?”

And I’ll say, “Yes. When the pomegranates were still blooming.”