Knitting has also been a common denominator with loved ones who are way more advanced than I, or who ask me to teach them. It's also created an instant sense of kinship with new acquaintances who share the hobby. (I know this is not unique to knitting.)
It has given me reasons seek out new places in our travels as I meet the yarn shop owners from Amsterdam to Whidbey Island to Buenos Aires.
It connects me with strangers who are knitting the same project I am via sites like Ravelry, through knit-along projects that we all sign on to try at the same time.
Which brings me to this most recent project, which highlighted that community, yes, but also the inner life of the knitter.
Because as much as knitting has forged connections, it has also forced me to notice my inner dialogue. I have done my best here to be honest about how crafting does not come easily to me - but if I'm patient and persistent, I insist, I have the ability to produce something I can wear, give, or otherwise display. But it often comes after a lot of negative self-talk. I call myself a dummy or just plain clumsy. I curse my fingers for not being nimble. I tell myself I'm really not that creative - I just follow patterns. And I often follow them badly.
And yet, through some miracle of crafter's optimism or just my own stubbornness, I keep at it. I conveniently forget the by-product of stress and self-doubt when trying new patterns and techniques, believing this will be the time I prove I really know what I'm doing.
In December, I signed on to participate in a knit-along called Project Peace with one of my knitting buddies at work. Part of the experience, the reason for the "Peace" title, was to incorporate a meditative practice with the knitting for 21 days, leading up to the winter solstice. It's a lovely idea because the repetition of knitting really does lend itself to meditation and mindfulness. You connect with yourself, while hundreds of others around the world do the same.
The lovely idea collided with reality when I cast on 300+ stitches and didn't allow myself enough yarn to finish the cast-on. It took me about 10 minutes to realize this. I ripped it out, and eyeballed an extra bit of yarn, and added a stitch counter to the mix to help me keep track of the count. And then - I didn't eyeball enough yarn, again. I groaned in agony. One more time, I thought. And then as I started to knit the first row, I dropped a stitch into oblivion. Stupid clumsy fingers, lousy stinkin' so-called knitter. I wasn't sure whether to scream or to cry. By this point, we'd watched two Modern Family episodes and I had nothing to show for all that work (and I wasn't even paying attention to the show). I rewound the yarn and put it away for the night. Joel sarcastically said he was glad I had such a relaxing hobby. "Peace" was definitely not what I felt.
The next morning I had a quiet moment to try again and forget about the night before. I counted each stitch. I started on my first row. Then the second. Time flew and it was time for me to catch the bus.
And so the knitting continued. I learned the pattern by heart. I found I could chat and multitask a little bit, but I really looked forward to the silent times. I took it on the road, on the plane, I sat in silence working and paying attention to the stitches. I thought about the geese pattern (i.e., the triangles), thought about winter, but I tried not to think of much else but counting and repeating. I felt my mind quiet. I was truly enjoying myself. Worries and negativity crept in, and I tried to use those moments to pause and review my work and refocus on where I was at that point in the pattern. Knit, knit, purl, purl, purl, knit, knit. I felt the textures the different stitches created and marveled at how soft yet defined it was.
At last, I finished it. I blocked it. I love it. I had Joel do a fashion photo shoot of me with it.
It wasn't until I started writing about it that I realized this whole process has been about focusing on patterns. The knitting pattern, for one. But also the patterns I create in my head. They can be meditative, and they can be destructive. By changing my thought patterns with this project, I could refocus on the act of knitting as something to enjoy and even marvel at, rather than another opportunity to screw something up. This latest project and focus didn't cure me of all my negative self-talk, but I'm working on it. Wearing this cowl, I feel connected to all the others who worked through this pattern, who are working toward peace in their own lives and on a larger scale. It's a reminder of how freeing it is to focus on nothing but what you are doing this very moment. It is, I cheekily conclude, a pattern worth repeating.
And yet, through some miracle of crafter's optimism or just my own stubbornness, I keep at it. I conveniently forget the by-product of stress and self-doubt when trying new patterns and techniques, believing this will be the time I prove I really know what I'm doing.
In December, I signed on to participate in a knit-along called Project Peace with one of my knitting buddies at work. Part of the experience, the reason for the "Peace" title, was to incorporate a meditative practice with the knitting for 21 days, leading up to the winter solstice. It's a lovely idea because the repetition of knitting really does lend itself to meditation and mindfulness. You connect with yourself, while hundreds of others around the world do the same.
The lovely idea collided with reality when I cast on 300+ stitches and didn't allow myself enough yarn to finish the cast-on. It took me about 10 minutes to realize this. I ripped it out, and eyeballed an extra bit of yarn, and added a stitch counter to the mix to help me keep track of the count. And then - I didn't eyeball enough yarn, again. I groaned in agony. One more time, I thought. And then as I started to knit the first row, I dropped a stitch into oblivion. Stupid clumsy fingers, lousy stinkin' so-called knitter. I wasn't sure whether to scream or to cry. By this point, we'd watched two Modern Family episodes and I had nothing to show for all that work (and I wasn't even paying attention to the show). I rewound the yarn and put it away for the night. Joel sarcastically said he was glad I had such a relaxing hobby. "Peace" was definitely not what I felt.
The next morning I had a quiet moment to try again and forget about the night before. I counted each stitch. I started on my first row. Then the second. Time flew and it was time for me to catch the bus.
And so the knitting continued. I learned the pattern by heart. I found I could chat and multitask a little bit, but I really looked forward to the silent times. I took it on the road, on the plane, I sat in silence working and paying attention to the stitches. I thought about the geese pattern (i.e., the triangles), thought about winter, but I tried not to think of much else but counting and repeating. I felt my mind quiet. I was truly enjoying myself. Worries and negativity crept in, and I tried to use those moments to pause and review my work and refocus on where I was at that point in the pattern. Knit, knit, purl, purl, purl, knit, knit. I felt the textures the different stitches created and marveled at how soft yet defined it was.
At last, I finished it. I blocked it. I love it. I had Joel do a fashion photo shoot of me with it.
It wasn't until I started writing about it that I realized this whole process has been about focusing on patterns. The knitting pattern, for one. But also the patterns I create in my head. They can be meditative, and they can be destructive. By changing my thought patterns with this project, I could refocus on the act of knitting as something to enjoy and even marvel at, rather than another opportunity to screw something up. This latest project and focus didn't cure me of all my negative self-talk, but I'm working on it. Wearing this cowl, I feel connected to all the others who worked through this pattern, who are working toward peace in their own lives and on a larger scale. It's a reminder of how freeing it is to focus on nothing but what you are doing this very moment. It is, I cheekily conclude, a pattern worth repeating.
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