Last week, I picked up an abandoned knitting project. It's a lace wrap I began a year ago. Then my sister got pregnant, and I got pregnant, and I got to work on maternity clothes and baby projects--sweaters, blankets, hats--and a big sister gift for my niece. Then Christmas came around. Etcetera, etcetera. You know the drill.
After finishing a few baby toys, I figured Keegan was well stocked, and I could return to more selfish projects, like my lace wrap.
First order of business: figuring out which row I had left off on.
Which I figured wrong. This meant I had to undo stitches (following the pattern backwards to make sure I undid them correctly) and reknit. Then, probably because I was watching TV while knitting, I lost count, messed up, and had to undo half a row and reknit. Then I messed up a third time, which I didn't discover until the end of the row, when the counting didn't come out right.
You've most likely gathered this about me, but I am not a perfectionist. I have areas in my life--writing, my stomach muscles--in which I strive toward perfection, but I am not a perfectionist. I rarely follow recipes and freely substitute items I have on hand for items called for in the recipe (or just make it up according to my tastes). When picking up the house for visitors, I toss clothes, baby toys, and receipts in closets--where I may forget about them for weeks. As long as a spider weaves her home out of my way, she won't be disturbed in my house (I like to think of it as indoor-outdoor living space).
So one minor knitting row? Pennies.
A couple more rows down the line, this marred row nagged at me. I've knit sweaters, socks, shrugs, blankets, but I had never tackled a lace pattern, with its intricate design and involved directions. I wanted it to be right. I had to redo my work.
Once I decided this, I expected my normal temper tantrum to ensue. (I'm a big fan of temper tantrums and have perfected them over time.) Strangely enough, instead, a sense of calm settled about me. Perhaps I'm maturing (although let's not jump to crazy conclusions), or perhaps the lack of a deadline, such as Christmas, birthdays, or birth-dates, removed any pressure that the temper tantrum would have relieved.
But here's what I believe: my decision that I'd rather have this wrap knitted correctly than quickly changed my attitude about the project. Concern for the beauty of the thing mitigated the frustrations of fixing my mistakes. Perhaps not a single soul besides me would notice this mistake, but it would deface the elegance of the wrap.
So I took to my knitting, or unknitting in this case, careful to replace stitches that had been slipped over others or knit together or turned, unraveling an episode of 30 Rock's worth of work. I counted and recounted and triple checked against the pattern. Satisfied that the snafu had been scrubbed, I tackled the row again.
The piece lengthens slowly, the diamond lace pattern emerging and forming. Perhaps a better word to describe what I pursue in this is excellence, rather than perfection. In striving for excellence and beauty, I find a patience and attentiveness foreign to my natural inclinations.
A good thing, too, because a few days later, I unwisely left my knitting mid-row on the sofa. When I returned, several stitches had slipped off the needle. No worries. I've become an expert at correcting this particular wrap.
Heather A. Goodman learned how to knit from her mother over the phone as her mother used a TV antennae as a make-shift needle to jog her muscle memory. Heather pursues beauty in knitting, writing, and motherhood.
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