Frustration: -adjective 1) Disappointed; thwarted 2) Having a feeling of or filled with frustration; dissatisfied
Fifteen hours is a long time. 15 hours is just shy of two work days. In 15 hours I can get deep enough into California to be well on my way to Mexico. Or watch almost all of the Harry Potter films. 15 hours is also how much time I had invested in the project I just ripped out.
I ran my hands over and over the stitches I had finished up to this point. No matter how hard I tried or how carefully I looked or how many rows I unknitted and back tracked, I couldn’t find it. Somewhere there is an error, a mistake, an oversight. A point where I stopped focusing for just a moment and caused some sort of irrevocable damage. The worst part is that I remember every single one of these stitches.
I remember the turbulence we hit as we flew over Houston while I worked the border. I remember the beautiful European woman who grabbed my hand and told me that we were ok as her husband nodded in agreement. I have never known such kindness from a stranger.
I remember laying in the grass in the Boston Common, daydreaming and soaking in the bright East Coast sun and working the beginnings of the lace repeats. I have never known such freedom.
I remember teaching one of my favourite cousins to knit and describing the complexities of reading lace patterns and how it is like poetry. Like physically manifested poetry. I have never known such pride.
And I remember the bloody head cold I had as I flew back from Boston and, even though i just wanted to die, I knit for a straight seven hours becuase I didn’t think I would have been able to stand that flight otherwise. I was deaf for three days after we landed. And I have never known such relief.
I remember exactly what that trip meant to me, and this entire project, while far from finished, had become a tangible memory of that trip. As it grew, I grew. It became a part of me. And yet I still cannot find the one little place where my fingers slipped, where I lost my way.
So here I am, pulling it apart. Stitch by stitch. Row by row. And I’m frustrated. Not because I have to start over, because why would I complain about the opportunity for more knitting? I’m frustrated because I am tearing out stitches that meant more to me than they seemed. I’ve never really been one for souvenirs necessarily, especially since I’ve moved somewhere around nine times in the last 6 years, but this little piece of such an important trip has been particularly hard to let go of.
Now that I have said goodbye, I have rewound the ball and I have casted back on. I have found a renewed sense of purpose. After all, the yarn is the same. The memories are still in her fiber. In her heart. But this next version of my Boston project will be better. More full of love. More full of heart. And I can now carry this process with me for longer. Through more memories. I can connect one of the best summers I’ve ever had to one of the happiest winters I can remember and then to what I hope to be a beautiful spring.