An engaging read and perfect gift for knitters: How our favorite craft empowers, heals, and reconnects us to each other and ourselves In a fractured world, knitting is a lifeline. Economist and lifelong knitter Loretta Napoleoni reveals the hidden power of purl and stitch: a means for women to influence history, a soothing activity to calm our nervous systems, and a powerful metaphor of life. This book is an essential read for anyone who knits – from beginners to longtime hobbyists to the occasional creator of a blanket to welcome a newborn. You’ll discover: How knitting shaped history, from Ancient Egypt to the knitting spies of World War II and the craftivism and yarnbombing from the 1960s that continues today. How knitting changes the brain, helping us relax and beat anxiety and overthinking. The latest technological advances that allow us to create new knitted forms to amaze and improve lives. For the author, this book is also a personal journey of discovery and salvation, drawing on the wisdom her grandmother passed along as they knitted together. Combining surprising history, cutting-edge neuroscience, and powerful storytelling, The Power of Knitting sheds light on a beloved pastime and its beautiful past, present, and future. As a bonus, the book includes patterns for ten simple yet iconic projects that reflect the creative, empowering spirit of knitting, with complete instructions. Loretta Napoleoni, a life-long avid knitter, is an economist, consultant, and author whose books on global financing have been translated into 21 languages. Through her work with the International Monetary Fund, the commodities markets, and more, she has traveled the world (with knitting projects in tow). She splits her time between London and Rome, with annual visits to the US. INTRODUCTION Knitting the Patterns of Love, Politics, and Economics       A headband, a light blue headband, was the first thing I knitted. I must have been six or seven years old when I picked up my first needles, under the supervision of my grandmother. If I close my eyes, I can still see, in the golden patina of my most precious memories, the two of us. We are sitting so close; her elbow is underneath mine, her large body warming my left side. I am excited. Somehow, I understand that this is a rite of passage, a tiny little step on my journey to becoming an adult, a woman, and I am eager to perform it. I am also nervous. I am pressing the yarn between my fingers with all my strength, as if in fear it will escape. My grandmother looks at me, smiles, and removes the yarn from my hand. Then she gently tucks one needle under my right arm, wraps my left hand around the other one, puts the yarn back in my right hand, and begins guiding me. Relax, she whispers, do not pull the yarn too much or too little, let it be your friend, let it dance around the needles. And so my love story with knitting began. I learned the times tables, memorized poems, and recited the rosary while knitting with my grandmother. Purls and stitches became numbers, words of beautiful sentences, Holy Marys and Our Fathers, all intertwined inside the magic fabric of our love. They connected her life to mine so that she could transmit her wisdom, so that her teachings could carry on guiding me forever in between stitches. Later on, in my twenties, as a passionate member of the feminist movement, I shared that insight with the traumatized women who sought help from our organization. Holding my needles and yarn, knitting the clothes I wore, I welcomed them to our consciousness-raising meetings. My grandmother was born in 1900. She was fourteen when World War I broke out, eighteen when she met my grandfather, thirty-nine when World War II started, fifty-five when I was born, and fifty-nine when her husband died. She had witnessed the devastation of war not once but twice, endured Fascism, joined the Italian resistance, and seen the birth of the Italian democracy. She was a living history book I never grew tired of reading. Her stories were amazing—scary, sad, and happy at the same time—but above all, they were real. She shared them with me while we knitted together. I was fascinated to hear about how the world had plunged into a global conflict and how her brothers and future husband had marched to the front to fight an evil enemy. There was such pride in her voice, a pride that blurred the horrors of the trenches, the cold, the mud, the hunger, the rats. She never tried to hide from me the terror of war, the inhumanity of the war front, but she put them in the context of the unpredictable patterns of life and politics. War was like a very, very difficult sequence of stitches. You could not skip one move; you had to tackle each one with courage and determination. I am thankful for her realism because it made me understand that peace is not a given and that if you want to protect it, you have to be an active member of society. So in between purling and stitch