Yeah, it's you. It's definitely you.
What's that quote... about craftspeople and their tools and how crappy tools can be made to serve a skilled artisan and all of that jazz. I can't be bothered to Google it because I really don't care much about the actual quote. It just provides context for the humbling lesson I learned while spending five days in bed with a raging head cold and a jumbo box of Kleenex.
Unwilling slave to Blockbuster, scrambled eggs and portable crafts, I found myself eyeing my knitting needles for the first time in weeks. My adorable boyfriend had finally agreed to wear a knitted scarf if I made him one with Space Invaders, and I dove into the world of intarsia with the unchained fear of one who knows no better. One explosion and five invaders later, my bunched-up, error-filled labor of love just made me uncomfortable. The guilt was simmering just low enough to be washed out by the fear of unraveling yet another row of black and yellow yarn, stitch by painful stitch.
Knitting had always bored me. Knit, purl, knit, purl. Big deal. Sure, I love me some sweaters. Who doesn't? I'd always left it to machines, and the women who spent so much time and energy doing it that they needed an entire blog to track and describe it. No offense to my crafty sisters (and brothers), but if you're that into your thing, I don't want to read about it on the web. I want to meet you somewhere for a beer to talk about it in person.
I needed a distraction from the bedsores, though, and the other thing sick people like me have at their disposal is always-on internect connectivity and an iBook. Laying in bed, smothering under the weight of my own sinuses, I was humbled enough to briefly consider that maybe, just maybe, I didn't yet know all there was to know about knitting errors. My curiosity piqued and my humility squarely in charge, I Googled "undo knit". I clicked a few links, finding very little in the first few. Spotting one from knitty.com, a clean and well-written site that I'd come to appreciate for its light, young, no-nonsense tone, I clicked through hopefully. Scanning the article with its clear, well-lit photography, I was stunned to find directions to not only perform the task at hand, but perform it EASILY. Suddenly, the sky crashed down and the earth opened up to swallow me: I DIDN'T REALLY KNOW WHAT I WAS DOING.
I devoured knitting for the next three days. I read patterns, looked at countless photos of knit structures, watched instructional videos and pawed the yarn I already had in my stash. I picked up knit garments that I'd flung carelessly around the room and inspected them for clues. I ventured out briefly to the yarn store, caressing the skeins I'd previously only read about on WEBS. Gathering strange new tools into my shopping basket, I sniffled my way home to try out new techniques.
And I tried. And tried. And ripped my stitches out over and over, and tried once more. Blocking? Three attempts and left for a later date. In the round with double-pointed needles? Five attempts, and a very long length of wasted Noro Kureyon. Continental knitting? Several rows wasted while guessing, and achieved on the first attempt after watching a video on knittinghelp.com.
Humility is good. Realizing that I need to stick at something new to work through frustration and develop skill is great. Understanding that sometimes things bore me only because I don't yet have skills is amazing. Okay, I'll probably never like skiing. I can live with that. I'm going to be wearing the coolest knit cap on the slopes, though.
And I'll probably get drunk in the lodge. A girl knows what she does best.
What's that quote... about craftspeople and their tools and how crappy tools can be made to serve a skilled artisan and all of that jazz. I can't be bothered to Google it because I really don't care much about the actual quote. It just provides context for the humbling lesson I learned while spending five days in bed with a raging head cold and a jumbo box of Kleenex.
Unwilling slave to Blockbuster, scrambled eggs and portable crafts, I found myself eyeing my knitting needles for the first time in weeks. My adorable boyfriend had finally agreed to wear a knitted scarf if I made him one with Space Invaders, and I dove into the world of intarsia with the unchained fear of one who knows no better. One explosion and five invaders later, my bunched-up, error-filled labor of love just made me uncomfortable. The guilt was simmering just low enough to be washed out by the fear of unraveling yet another row of black and yellow yarn, stitch by painful stitch.
Knitting had always bored me. Knit, purl, knit, purl. Big deal. Sure, I love me some sweaters. Who doesn't? I'd always left it to machines, and the women who spent so much time and energy doing it that they needed an entire blog to track and describe it. No offense to my crafty sisters (and brothers), but if you're that into your thing, I don't want to read about it on the web. I want to meet you somewhere for a beer to talk about it in person.
I needed a distraction from the bedsores, though, and the other thing sick people like me have at their disposal is always-on internect connectivity and an iBook. Laying in bed, smothering under the weight of my own sinuses, I was humbled enough to briefly consider that maybe, just maybe, I didn't yet know all there was to know about knitting errors. My curiosity piqued and my humility squarely in charge, I Googled "undo knit". I clicked a few links, finding very little in the first few. Spotting one from knitty.com, a clean and well-written site that I'd come to appreciate for its light, young, no-nonsense tone, I clicked through hopefully. Scanning the article with its clear, well-lit photography, I was stunned to find directions to not only perform the task at hand, but perform it EASILY. Suddenly, the sky crashed down and the earth opened up to swallow me: I DIDN'T REALLY KNOW WHAT I WAS DOING.
I devoured knitting for the next three days. I read patterns, looked at countless photos of knit structures, watched instructional videos and pawed the yarn I already had in my stash. I picked up knit garments that I'd flung carelessly around the room and inspected them for clues. I ventured out briefly to the yarn store, caressing the skeins I'd previously only read about on WEBS. Gathering strange new tools into my shopping basket, I sniffled my way home to try out new techniques.
And I tried. And tried. And ripped my stitches out over and over, and tried once more. Blocking? Three attempts and left for a later date. In the round with double-pointed needles? Five attempts, and a very long length of wasted Noro Kureyon. Continental knitting? Several rows wasted while guessing, and achieved on the first attempt after watching a video on knittinghelp.com.
Humility is good. Realizing that I need to stick at something new to work through frustration and develop skill is great. Understanding that sometimes things bore me only because I don't yet have skills is amazing. Okay, I'll probably never like skiing. I can live with that. I'm going to be wearing the coolest knit cap on the slopes, though.
And I'll probably get drunk in the lodge. A girl knows what she does best.
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