So yesterday I was washing the dishes with a dish rag/cloth that I made myself. Nothing fancy, a simple garter stitch (which is comprised of knitting every row). Any knitting master would guffaw in my face at the notion of being pleased with what is essentially a square of the easiest stitch in knitting, but I am incredibly proud of this triumph.
The ladies in my immediate genetic family have never been incredibly crafty. My mother and grandmother have both admitted to consistently effing up sewing machines (although my mother stole mine a year ago and is still working on learning how to use it), and neither of them were much for yarn crafts. With this genetic makeup in mind, I find it a particularly wonderful that in adulthood I could do anything at all with yarn and knitting needles.
It was actually my mother-in-law that taught me to knit. Zenda has the patience of the Buddha (although she's Catholic so that wouldn't necessarily be a compliment in her mind) and showed me casting-on, knitting and purling about a zillion times one Saturday afternoon. After some really insane-looking practice, I've really realized the importance of yarn tension in knitting.
Something in knitting, though, that really seems to escape me is reading a knitting pattern. This amalgamation of hieroglyphics would be no clearer to me if I possessed the Rosetta Stone. This wacky and mystifying piece of the crafting world may remain a mystery to me for the rest of my life.
I mean, WTF?
This morning, I was wiping up the counter with my newest creation and I was insanely pleased with myself, as I felt, in my mind, that this was one step closer to self-sufficiency. Before you know it, I'll know how to build my own composting-toilet and grow my own toilet paper...or whatever.