Dropped Stitches
With new experiences comes the possibility of failure.
With new experiences comes the possibility of failure.
It took me six months to knit a blanket that will become more and more misshapen with each wash. The blanket is small, it barely fits on my lap. The blanket is riddled with mistakes and several wrong stitches. The blanket represents a year in which I’ve reconfigured my relationship with failure. I used to hate trying new things. If I wasn’t good at, I didn’t want to do it. New things represented the possibility of new failures. I had almost no hobbies, outside of reading. I was paralyzed by the idea of being the worst. The COVID-19 lockdown changed all that. It is hard to find new experiences when you’re inside your apartment. I found them in the form of new activities, new interests. I’ve sewn several unwearable garments. I’ve crocheted endless granny rhombuses that should be granny squares. I’ve mended the holes in socks with an aggressiveness that caused new holes to form. I’ve never been happier. The joy of the new isn’t in doing something well, or doing something right. The joy is in the doing. There is a marvel in trying something, without knowing whether or not it will turn out. You get to impress yourself in ways you never knew possible.
The joy of the new isn’t in doing something well, or doing something right. The joy is in the doing.
The best moment in my blanket-making experience was the day half my stitches fell off my needle. For those of you who don’t knit, this is a big deal. I had to make a choice to save the work I had done or to unravel it all. If I unraveled it, I knew I’d not restart the project. I cried for twenty minutes and then hit YouTube for the answer. Saving the work meant making a few more unintentional holes. I run my fingers over them now and they make me prouder than any of my even stitches.