The basket of possible sleeves

An original personal essay about unfinished knitting.

My basket contains three possible sleeves and the beginning of something which was definitely going to be a scarf. The wool rises above the rim like evidence at a hearing. Every time I look at it, a small prosecutor clears her throat.

I know the argument. Finished things can be worn. Half a jumper is an inconvenient reply to cold weather, and calling it a journey does not supply the missing back. There is pleasure in completing a thing, as well as in explaining why you have not.

But I have begun examining the basket more closely. Here is the first cable pattern I managed without losing the crossing. Here is the colour I thought would be cheerful until it became an entire afternoon of orange. One abandoned sleeve records a discovery about the pattern; another records the useful discovery that I did not want to make it.

Some pieces will be unravelled. I like watching a solemn intention become a loose ball, available for a different mistake. Others can wait until I am willing to finish them, which is different from waiting until I have forgiven myself for their existence.

The basket still needs sorting. I have not appointed it a monument to my creative freedom. I would simply like to do the sorting without a courtroom. A little wool should be allowed to remain wool before it is asked to prove my character.

Examine the methods the writer uses to challenge feelings of guilt about unfinished work.