|My 1st self-directed knitting project. What is is?|
Last night, I decided to teach myself how to knit. I had one lesson from nine-year-old Levi, earlier this month. It was a difficult lesson. This time I turned to YouTube instructional videos. I knitted the entire ball of yarn I had, it amounted to 29 inches long once knitted (ten stitches a row).
I am not good at knitting. Nor do I think I particularly like it. It hurts my left hand--the location of a childhood sports injury. I find that knitting makes me angry. While I was knitting last night, I stopped and threw the knitting needles on the ground yelling "I hate knitting."
Melissa saw me do it.
I want to believe I can knit. I want to think I will knit and maybe crochet heirloom quality Christmas ornaments like my grandmother. Or that my little nephew, who will be born in November, will get a beautifully-knit baby blanket from me. But my hands are all thumbs. There's no getting around it: my knitting is ugly.
Nonetheless I am determined to knit.
Yet somehow it's fascinating that a long string wound up by the rhythm of one's hands can take such form: an arm, a toe, a sweater, a sock. Even if it is ugly, it's handmade. There should be satisfaction in that.
Knitting requires counting, a tedious task that may have disastrous consequences if not done. I know this. Did you look at the pictures yet?
Then there's Knitta, leg warmers on a postal box or bike rack. These graffiti artists love to knit. It must make them happy. I don't think I could ever be so happy as to knit around the city.
It's a skill that one should have--the making of one's own clothes. I suppose if I'm stranded alone with a bunch of sheep, some sheers, and sticks I could whittle needles and try to spin yarn from wool and knit. You know, it's probably the first thing I'd think of. What else would I do?