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Knitting group again last night. It’s interesting to watch how the different women knit. One woman, much older than me who is just learning, never finishes a row because she rips out all of her stitches once she sees any little thing wrong with her work. Others work so slowly and carefully, counting and double-checking every few minutes. Me, I just keep knitting, watching my thick black chenille scarf take form. Dropped a stitch? Oh, well. Got one extra on somehow? C’est la vie. Forge ahead and finish, I say. “But what are you going to do with those tiny little holes?” Marie asks me as she’s fussing and ripping out yet another row just begun.
That’s when I pull out the ball of bright, variegated pink and black yarn from my bag. “I’m going to crochet some flowers with this”, I say, “I’m going to make a nice pink border on the edges of my scarf and I’m going to sew these flowers over all my screw-ups.“
All the ladies laugh. Dottie grins broadly and nods her head. She’s the oldest of the bunch and the one who taught me how to knit my first stitches. She’s wearing a Band-Aid on her face, covering the latest nondescript skin ailment that the very old always seem to have going on. She gives me a mischievous wink and says, “That’s the way to do it.”
I knit like I live. Life is absolutely perplexing to me sometimes. In a matter of months, I erased one life and began another, stubborn and convinced that I was following my bliss. I do that. I don't ever put a toe in the water and stir it long enough to figure out hot or cold. I just run as fast as I can and barrel into the water feet first and arms open wide. Some would call this passion. My mother always called it stupidity. I’m not sure what to call it, other than the way I live. There’s no question that living this way, I am the maker of most of my own troubles. Still, I blunder on with no less heart or spirit, even when I realize that I’ve made a mistake. I don’t have time to go back and start over. All I can do is patch the holes with flowers.
That’s when I pull out the ball of bright, variegated pink and black yarn from my bag. “I’m going to crochet some flowers with this”, I say, “I’m going to make a nice pink border on the edges of my scarf and I’m going to sew these flowers over all my screw-ups.“
All the ladies laugh. Dottie grins broadly and nods her head. She’s the oldest of the bunch and the one who taught me how to knit my first stitches. She’s wearing a Band-Aid on her face, covering the latest nondescript skin ailment that the very old always seem to have going on. She gives me a mischievous wink and says, “That’s the way to do it.”
I knit like I live. Life is absolutely perplexing to me sometimes. In a matter of months, I erased one life and began another, stubborn and convinced that I was following my bliss. I do that. I don't ever put a toe in the water and stir it long enough to figure out hot or cold. I just run as fast as I can and barrel into the water feet first and arms open wide. Some would call this passion. My mother always called it stupidity. I’m not sure what to call it, other than the way I live. There’s no question that living this way, I am the maker of most of my own troubles. Still, I blunder on with no less heart or spirit, even when I realize that I’ve made a mistake. I don’t have time to go back and start over. All I can do is patch the holes with flowers.