My perfectly imperfect scarf
I just finished knitting a scarf. It was the source of some humor among friends, who thought I was inspired by Meredith Grey who began knitting a sweater in order to stay away from men. (Like most good jokes, this may have been a teensy bit true. Meredith is also holding the needles incorrectly, which I know, because I do too.)
I haven't knit since I was a child. Whatever knowledge or skill I had them had completely evaporated with time. A series of YouTube videos guided me through the motions.
Amidst the craziness of my recent move to New York, I found myself craving a skill, something to do with my hands. Assembling Ikea furniture brought me a lot of joy. Knitting is a cheaper. I work on the computer all day long - pushing around words in cyber-space. The real-ness of a physical thing is refreshing.
At the same time, I'd been questioning my relationship with my clothes. I wanted to make something that went against the transience of fast fashion. If you spend hours knitting a scarf, you’re unlikely to toss it thoughtlessly. There was a particular kind of scarf that I wanted and I couldn’t find it anywhere (not that I really looked, or rather looked and dismissed things arbitrarily for being “too expensive”). As you knit, you’re DNA weaves itself in the fibre of the fabric. It becomes more your's, something permanent in a world of impermanence. Knitting this scarf connected me with my past. I live in New York now, something that’d be beyond the bounds of possibility for my grandparents. When I see my hands knit, I remember my mother and grandmother making the same motion. It creates a kinship with them. Knitting was therapeutic and productive, without being taxing. I enjoyed it.
When I finished my scarf, I beamed with pride and tried it on. The finished product is, to put it very kindly, less than perfect. There are dropped stitches, imperfect joins and rather than a the classic, slim, even scarf shape, my version is completely lopsided. It's been compared to a nappy for a sumo wrestler, an apron and a blanket for a deformed dinosaur.
But, I still love it.
These last few months, I've made a lot of mistakes. One can't move countries, start a new job, iterate a new career direction, meet a bunch of new people and try to find one's way in a new city without screwing up, and I have done so with alarming frequency. The mistakes have been big and small, recoverable and irrevocable, scary and unimportant. I've over-ridden my gut, dulled my synapses with coffee and sugar, taken my eye of the important stuff and got stuck in minutiae. I made bad decisions, didn't always remember to eat and failed to respect both myself and the work. If you strive for great work, you will fail, feel ashamed, doubt your talent and want to hide away forever. If you don't fail, you're not shooting high enough. From my most recent epic failure, I re-learned lessons of grit and compassion, about listening to my gut and having the courage to adhere to it. I haven't completely learned those lessons yet, but I do think I'm a step closer.
And, it's all OK. I learned from it. I learned that often (especially early in your career), your work isn't that great. You try hard and occasionally it's great, but usually it isn't. (These ideas are echoed in Ira Glass's infamous thoughts on creativity.) It's a matter of craft, discipline and heart. It's about faith, courage and grit. You work, work, work, work, work, work, work and notice that it gets a little easier. And then you work some more. It's never perfect.
I consider myself on an apprenticeship, in a period of active learning striving for mastery.
This isn't about mediocrity. This is about accepting that you're not always awesome. It's about humility and taking the pressure off. Be real. Do your best and forgive the mistakes, whether they were your's or someone else's.
So, I'll wear my perfectly, imperfect scarf with pride (except on very cold days when I'll need an actual functioning scarf :)
