Speak your truth. Now that sounds like a plan that came together. The sort of thing you can say to your momentarily needy best friend. That Eureka moment, where your wisdom outweighs anything, the universe may want to contribute. But, to speak the truth, as much as I like the phrase, I had no idea what it meant. So, Aunty Google helped out. She sat me down on her lap, and explained…..(work with me. Aunty Google is very big. She has an ample global lap.)

My dear child, she started, speaking your truth is the ability to communicate your needs, ideas, boundaries, and convictions to others without wavering, and in a way that other people can hear you. Oooooh! Golly Gosh. Sjarlene has been watching too many Ted Talks of late. Buckle up guys, she is going to speak her truth. Even if it is the truth according to her most favourite rocker: Meat Loaf. In his own words: “I’d lie for you (and that’s the truth.)”

One of my truths is: I love knitting. I wish I could pitch in with things like actionable narrative or burn rate. I would like to discuss how to bootstrap with a bean counter. Perhaps I can be described as a big hitter achieving a bank shot. (all this, by the way, is what came up when I asked Aunty G for examples of corporate talk. Her words. Not mine.) But sadly no. I am just me, and I love knitting. There. I have spoken my truth.

Back in my day – yes, I am finally old enough to use that term, girls had House Keeping as a subject at school. Boys did woodwork or agricultural studies – which created a window of opportunity for the boys to share cigarettes behind the bicycle shed, because no teacher was going to stand out in the midday sun and watch boys weed their tomato patch. Teachers have important things to do in that time. These subjects no longer exist as we learnt them. They have morphed into things like Hospitality Studies and Life Orientation. These days, House Keeping (I have been told) is seen as a way to suppress young people and to prepare them for a role in servitude, or whatever is seen to be of very little value and trivial importance. Maybe so, but this is where I first learnt to cook, sew, knit and even sew on a button. It fitted me out with life skills that I still use every day, and it has not diminished my value.

Somewhere along the line – definitely not at school, high school in the 1980’s did not encourage free thinking – I did acquire the ability to rally people to do things. In June of this year, as Mandela Day was approaching (for those who do not know what it encompasses: You are supposed the use 67 minutes of your time, to positively contribute to your community), the inevitable question came: What are you doing for Mandela day? Ha! Let the rest of them serve soup and sandwiches to the needy. But as for me? I will speak my truth. I rallied the Silver Foxes (some of them are Vixens, Silver Vixens), and asked of them: Are we not of the generation that can knit? Ask not what your community can do for you, but rather: What can I knit for my community? And so, we embarked on a blanket knitting initiative. During the first few days, I lived in hope to accumulate enough knitted squares to maybe put 4 or 5 blankets together. But, when the day of reckoning came, my Foxy Vixens arrived with armfuls of craft. Complete blankets, each so beautifully made, each a work of art.

On the downside (yes, there always is one), you have the right to speak your truth, but it comes with the responsibility to live the values you preach. To walk the talk. So, I walked my talk down to the wool shop and bought a few balls of wool. How can I expect my Foxes to knit if I am not prepared to contribute. I out-knitted my wool, and had to walk the talk back to the wool shop. Because you see, by now I had had a glimpse of the blankets in the making and the stakes were high. I had to unpack my best stitches, in straight even rows, with little pops of creativity. Even Colin, who had a few sniggers as I cast on my first of 62 720 stitches (Yes. That is correct. 40 stitches, 56 rows, multiplied by 28 squares), was impressed by my blanket. That coming from Colin who is sleek and smooth and modern in his creativity. There is no room for knit-one-purl-one in Colin’s world. This week Friday, (we did miss Mandela Day by a few weeks – there is only so much you can do when your chief knitter had a tipple too much red wine and developed gout in her thumbs,) we are handing the fruits of our labour over to the next link in the chain. Our blankets will be used to keep a few patients recovering from – or undergoing treatment for – cancer, warm and snug for very many years to come. You see, that is the other thing about hand made blankets. They live forever, they get passed down generations, they become family heirlooms. Polar Fleece or Sherpa blankets bought at homeware stores, may look nice, they are super warm, and easy to wash. But they do not tell a story. For that, you need two hands, two knitting needles, more wool than what you budgeted for, and many, many hours. And 62 720 stitches. And foxy Vixens to keep the conversation going while the stitches grow.

The reality though is, I speak my truth. I do not suffer fools. I do not beat around the bush. Some people like it, others don’t. But what I can tell you is this, I am finally (and have been for some time already) at a stage of my life, where I will not dilute what I say. I am no longer a slave to situations. There is an Afrikaans saying: Ek maak nie ‘n moordkuil van my hart nie. It loosely translates into I do not make a murder pit of my heart. And you know what? It is so liberating.

Speak your truth, even if your voice shakes, and your wrists ache from all the knitting.