Maybe it's the pain meds, or maybe it's the odd sleep patterns of convalescence, but I'm feeling philosophical about knitting. Why don't I care about making it perfect? This led me to think . . .
Why do I knit? Why has it become so large a part of my life? Why do mistakes drive me crazy in some things, and in other projects I let them be?
Well, first of all, why do I knit?
- creating (same reason I love to bake)
- being part of something beautiful
- the feel of the fibers in my hand
- being artistic, but ending up with something practical (usually)
- making one-of-a-kind gifts for people I love
- donating hand-made things to good causes
- keeping my hands busy (it helps keep me from being distracted by other things)
- doing something quiet that helps me think
- having a project that helps me not feel obligated to maintain eye-contact with whoever I'm with
- having an excuse to get together with knitting friends
- feeling cool because I'm making cool stuff
- Is this project for me, for an unknown person, or a gift for someone specific?
- If it's for someone else, who, what kind of person are they (perfectionism-wise)?
- Is this a project where every stitch counts (pun intended) or not?
- How important is it that I follow the pattern to make it look decent?
I did not tink today. The scarf I'm making is an extreme modification of a loose design that will not show the mistake as horrible or disabling (in terms of wear-ability), and frankly, I doubt most people seeing it would even notice. I will keep on with my nearly-mindless knitting, engage my mind enough to compensate for the error, and complete my scarf.
And, heck, aren't you glad I finally found something to post about other than my damn leg?