28/365 The Joy Of Knitting
I’ve ummed and arred about what to do when I miss out writing a day. I’ve missed two consecutive days. A part of me thinks that’s a bit bad.
What to do? Should I catch up and attempt tricking people into thinking I wrote every single day? Or, in the spirit of authenticity, should let the gap emerge, come clean and proceed as normal? Instinct says I should do the latter because no one really cares. Life is too short to get all het up about a missed diary entry. Bite me.
I’ve spent today engaged in an unexpected pursuit. I’ve started a new knitting project. It appears I have acquired the knitting bug. Five hours were taken up on a new scarf today. So far, so good.
I finished a homemade knitted hat last weekend. It was a little rough around the edges It had a couple of holes in it too. “It’s something you should probably wear when no-one else is looking,” said The Husband when I proudly presented the finished product.
The mistakes in the hat may well have contributed to me starting on the scarf. There’s a desire to create perfection when you knit because, buried deep into the wavy patterns which emerge as each stitch is passed from one needle to another, is a pleasing uniformity which calms the soul by proving achievement.
Like running or digging the garden, there’s a delicious return on your investment when you knit.
Knitting takes time and therefore demands patience. The slowed-down pace manages your own expectations. The ritual helps you notice what’s preoccupying you, and what’s swamping you. Creases are ironed out.
The pay-off is a ridiculously warm sense of pride. There’s anticipation too imagining the first time you get to use the thing you’ve spent hours creating.
A piece of knitting also creates the most remarkable living creation — evidence of a period of time in which something creative was started and completed. A sort of crafty Twitter feed, brimming with good intention and momentary losses of concentration.
In an on-demand world where only the bite-size seems to be applauded, being forced by the dexterity of your own hands to take time over something is incredibly self-affirming.