Mindfulness in the Round
In my early days of motherhood, when I still thought that perfection was real and attainable, I learned to knit. A perfect mother hand knit her child’s sweaters, obviously. Perhaps I was trying to overcompensate, given that I was 19, unmarried and broke. So if made my child beautiful little garments out of super soft wool, then I wasn’t a total disaster, right? RIGHT?!
At first, I felt stiff and unsure. Casting on felt like trying to coax an overcooked spaghetti noodle to perform magic tricks. The knitting needles seemed absurdly long in my hands, and the ball of yarn rolled into a corner after winding itself around my ankles. I imagined creamy white sweaters with ribbing, cables, and intarsia designs as I crouched down, trying to lure the wool out from under the couch.
Little by little, I got the basics. Casting on, purling, then knitting for real. I graduated from little samples to a whole long scarf. I marveled looking at the long, albeit slightly wobbly multicolored scarf I’d made.
‘Every stitch, made by me!’
I regarded my toddler in a grander, yet similar manner as she wobbled across the floor on feet as soft and sweet as dumplings,
‘Every part, made by me!’
I was giddy with power. I could make a whole army of children, and knit scarves for all of them. I settled on…