Years ago I entered a phase of intense experimenting with different crafts and arts. I’d held in my creative urges when I was raising my boys — given I had so little time for anything after work. Once my sons were in high school and more independent, able to drive themselves to their activities, I moved forward with those interests that had been pushed down.

One of my early forays was into knitting. On a January day, I was walking down the aisle of a local craft store and the skeins of colorful yarns drew me. I stopped to examine them, feeling the texture and thickness in my hands, holding them against my face to check their softness. Admiring one of the turquoise skeins, I decided it was time to learn to knit. I had friends who’d gotten into knitting scarves — which seemed to be the trend of the time.

I found a local knitting group on Sunday afternoons. It was comprised of seven ladies; I was the only beginner. The scarf pattern I’d purchased was too complicated for me. Soon I had problems and the instructor showed me the stitch, then asked me to do a return demonstration. Under her close watch, I felt pressure to please the teacher and my fingers fumbled. She took my yarn and needles and showed me again. I got it the third time — at least for a while.

I was amazed at the other women, how easily they made their difficult projects of sweaters and socks. They seldom looked down at what they were doing as they carried on their conversation. It seemed their hands had muscle memory after knitting for years– some since their grandmothers’ taught them as young girls.

I should have known knitting wouldn’t come naturally for me. As a child, I had a hard time learning to tie my shoes — back in the days of laces instead of velcro. The neighbor boy, Richard, who didn’t give a lick about reading, was skilled at finding his way around the loops of a double knot. He patiently taught me even as I got turned around with which way the lace was looping. Years later, in 9th grade, it reminded me of my confusion at what felt like ‘looping’ of Algebra word problems. As an adult, I discovered that I had moments of directional confusion and that partially accounted for why I got lost –trying to drive out of housing developments or losing my way on road trips.

I stayed with the knitting class but I felt like a misfit. The teacher had a harsh tone — to my ears, and I wondered if I was just overly sensitive. I told my co-worker about my class and she asked me who was the teacher. When I told her, she had a knowing look, a slight smile and said, “No wonder she’s been hard to learn from. She was one of the parents at my school and could be difficult.”

But in spite of the instructor’s prickly teaching style, there was one thing that she said which stayed with me.

“I never stop knitting for the day at the end of a row,” she told us. “Starting into the next row makes it easier the next time.”

I got what she meant; there was less transition, less energy to get the momentum going the next time. Later, I saw how that same principle worked in other areas — especially writing. Instead of stopping at the end of a chapter, if I worked into the next, the following writing session was a continuation instead of a cold start. It reminded me of when I was a girl; school mornings weren’t as difficult when my clothes were laid out the night before — instead of waiting until I was bleary-eyed in those early hours rushing to catch the bus.

One week when I’d graduated from scarves and was working on a simple afghan pattern, I got off track and had a knotted up mess of yarn. I took it by the knitting store and was grateful that Mary Ann was working that afternoon. She was always easygoing and never criticized anyone for mistakes or their inability to correct their errors.

She took my afghan, then told me what she was doing as she got me back on track. I noticed an area where I’d made a mistake that wasn’t as prominent and pointed it out to her.

“Oh, that’s not a big deal,” she reassured me. “I think of that as a ‘Galloping Horse’ incident.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“If you were riding on a Galloping Horse and looked at it, would you see the error? Would your eyes go to that spot?”

Of course the answer was “No.”

“There are errors that are only noticeable for the critical eyes of the one who’s made it. You can let those go.”

That reminded me of the way Mama could spot a sewing error that was invisible to me. She had the trained eyes of an excellent seamstress that could see those tiny eighth-inch stitches of the garments she carefully crafted.

Eventually, I dropped out of the knitting class. It was hard to sit for two hours and be the only one who needed ‘special help.’ Later, I found Sunday afternoon Swing Dancing that suited my personality, a group where I fit in. Moving to the music, laughing and singing to the songs, was much more my style.

I kept my knitting needles and stored them in the back of my closet. I thought maybe one day when I’m old and ready for my rocking chair, I’ll give knitting another try; but not until I’m old 🙂

Best to you finding the place where you fit that brings you JOY.

Connie