Sometimes, hard things are worth doing.

I looked down at the bamboo knitting needles in my hands. The cotton string that had been in the process of becoming a lace scarf was hopelessly muddled, and there was nothing to do but to unravel it back to the beginning. Again. For the fourth (or was it fifth?) time.

Sometimes, hard things are worth doing.

I looked down at the bamboo knitting needles in my hands. The cotton string that had been in the process of becoming a lace scarf was hopelessly muddled, and there was nothing to do but to unravel it back to the beginning. Again. For the fourth (or was it fifth?) time.

I must have sighed aloud as I began to pull the stitches out, because my husband Peter looked a bit concerned. Gently he asked if I perhaps should be doing something else. He had watched as I had knit for a while, and then, realising that I had made a mistake, focussed in on correcting it. Painfully slowly and very carefully, I took apart two rows stitch by stitch for about 40 minutes, and finally made satisfied noises, pleased that I had managed to put things to right. Now, only a few rows further along, it had all gone wrong again with no hope of getting it right. I was too lost.

It wasn’t long before I began my next attempt. And I will continue to work at it until I have created the scarf no matter how many times I take it out and start again.

It’s a change for me. I don’t often have patience for things that I don’t do well straightaway. I don’t like doing things badly, and sometimes – maybe often even – it has kept me from risking new experiences. I watch someone do something so very well, and doubt that I’ll ever be able to achieve it. I listen to singing or poetry, see feet and body embody a lovely dance, or note the graceful curve of stroke of paint on a piece of paper. Then I keep my hands folded in my lap and sit quietly believing that I could never make something of real beauty, dance like that, sing or speak with such confidence or clarity.

But doing hard things is worth the effort. Keeping faith with the process of learning, being open to failure, and carrying on helps to train our hearts and minds for what life gives us.

As the lacy fabric became string again, I pondered winding it back into a ball and setting it aside for another project.

No, I decided as the last stitch popped out. I’ll continue to work on this scarf, seeking to make it as perfect as I can, trying to have the orderly stitches open in delicate leafy patterns.

Learning patience on a small piece of handwork is still learning patience. Paying attention to a single stitch is still learning to focus on the moment. It is, like meditation, a way to discover your own truth, your own strength. It is a way to learn how to be in your life and to appreciate it, no matter that it may be difficult.

I cast on 57 stitches again. I can see the that cream coloured string has become gray and a bit tattered. I cut off what is no longer usable, and begin one more time. Breathing deeply, I start knitting the pattern and watch the scarf begin to emerge. It is good to do a small difficult thing, and to notice the learning that comes along with it. I am training my heart and mind whilst I train my hands. Knit two, yarn forward, knit two together. The cloth grows on the needles. I will succeed, if not this time, then soon.