If there was one project (besides my manuscript) looming over my head for most of 2015, it was the unfinished scarf sitting on my dresser. Started last January with the Icelandic wool I purchased in Reykjavik, this green, yellow and purple scarf was originally slated for completion that same winter. As you can see, the projected timeline crumbled into a million little pieces.
So, the majority of my Christmas holidays were spent knitting. And knitting, and knitting, and knitting. Every time I settled down to watch some television, which was fairly often, I was determined to simultaneously work through a few dozen rows. If I was going to sit on my ass for four hours of Orphan Black, surely I could knit at the same time, right? Of course.
Then one day, it happened. Quite suddenly, I realized The Scarf was finished. With the help of a (child’s) how-to book, I managed to castoff by myself. Can you hear those angels singing in the background? It was miraculous, really. OMG, it’s done. It’s finally done!
With a smile of triumph, I wrapped the luxuriously long scarf around my neck and burrowed my face in the warmth. Ah! So this is what accomplishment feels like. The moment was incredibly satisfying. I held it out to family and friends as if it were an offering to the gods and said: “Look! Look at what I made! I finally finished the scarf! Isn’t it pretty?” Even the little bits of wool hanging from each stripe of colour change could not take away from the grandiosity of crossing the finishing line, after months of distraction and procrastination.
Melodramatic? Yes. So sue me. I’m happy.