Dropped Stiches -- Kelly

This is supposed to the post in which I wax rhapsodic on the joys of knitting. I’m supposed to tell you that nothing has ever brought me out of my head and into the moment like the hypnotic rhythm of looping and pulling. I’m supposed to tell you how I’ve abandoned my perfectionism, my inner critic, and learned to love each stitch, even the dropped ones.

That was all true.

For a bit.

I spent several days knitting and unraveling. Knitting and unraveling. Knitting and unraveling.

Binding off.

Gathering courage to purl, and discovering it wasn’t difficult at all.

Unraveling.

Starting again.

Unraveling.

I completed two little rectangles my daughter called “knitties” and took to bed each night.

I was totally relaxed. Peaceful and Mindful.

Then I noticed I was actually producing something and that it actually looked like knitting done by a knitter.

So I choked.

The minute my project began to have the potential to become a scarf, a sweater, a doll blanket, the minute the process disappeared, the joy went away.

I began to tense, to worry that I would make a mistake many rows into the project, a mistake so egregious I would have to abandon the entire thing, beautiful yarn and all.

This is, of course, pertinent to both meditation and writing.

Today I had a long talk, about knitting and writing, with a wise young woman. She posed a wonderful question.

“Have you ever set out to fail?” she asked.

“Well, I knew when I started knitting that I would make mistakes. Other than that, honestly, I’ve never done it consciously but unconsciously is another story altogether.”

And there you have it: fear of failure and fear of success in a nutshell.

I resolve today no longer to fear either with my writing.

I resolve today to be gentle with myself.

I resolve today to write to explore rather than to control.

For that last, we have editors.

Writer Incarnate -- Kerry

An 89 year-old man in a tight blue speedo swam with carefully placed arms and long, graceful flutter kicks in the Master's swimming meet last weekend. After four lengths in the 100 freestyle event, he touched the wall as the timers hovered over the edge.

As his head came out of the water and his arm went in the air with a thumbs-up victory sign, the packed crowd in the bleachers by the steamy pool erupted into wild applause.

And then the room became eerily silent as a tiny 87 year-old woman with a hunched back emerged from the bleachers and walked slowly to the starting blocks to compete against people twenty years younger. She slid gently into the water. Five other swimmers towered above her on starting blocks. The gun went off and she glided off the wall with a beautiful strong stroke, keeping her own time, as the other five swimmers flew into the churning water and passed her.

The crowd began cheering wildly again, "Elsie. Elsie. Elsie." She finished a 100 i.m., which is a length of butterfly, a length of backstroke and a length of breaststroke, followed by a final length of freestyle, performing a breathtaking show. She touched the wall at the finish and the crowd went wild again. She didn't even break a smile as she emerged from the pool, instead she just sort of saluted the stands and shuffled away.

I wondered how many times she'd had to start over working at this craft of swimming. Like Marcia's metaphor for writing and her son's ice hockey experiences and Jennie's expository on the different stages of growth in a writing life, perhaps that is what this writing game is all about: reinvention and reincarnation.

Not to mention a little bit of tenacity and maybe a bit of orneriness.