On Practice, Patience, and Persistence / Knitting, Running, and Writing

I have quiet hobbies because I'm a quiet person. For a year now I've finally been learning music, succeeding mainly on the quirky, very simple, Omnichord. Expressing myself through music is scary to me. Me making noise kind of scares me. Drawing attention to myself is something I never consider doing, and when it happens I shrink back into a shell. And, I'm Okay with that. I'm just a quiet person. I'm a lone wolf with a pair of knitting needles.

Music is a challenge I'm amazed at myself for doing at all. I wouldn't have gotten to this point were it not for the hobbies I naturally took up and which have formed who I am now, a person who can do anything if she embraces three things: practice, patience, and persistence.

Practice, patience, and persistence depend on each other. They form a shining circle, a feedback loop. For a number of years I've been writing, knitting, running, pushing myself through each of them (in varying degrees, however) because of the in-the-moment joy they stir up. Here are my reflections on my hobbies. Perhaps you can relate?

Practice

Fundamentally, knitting is performing an action over and over and over. I picked up knitting in the summer of 2005 on a whim. It was trendy at the time, and Target sold a starter kit with plastic number ten needles (which I understand now were of very low quality), pink eyelash yarn (a fad that was a terrible yarn to learn on), and a confusing tutorial DVD. I bought it the day I borrowed my dad's car to distract myself from the commencement of my grandmother's health decline and the angry absence of my brother. The car ran out of gas less than a mile from home. Whoops.

For almost ten years now, I've been learning knitting and I'll never stop learning. There are always many more miles of yarn to manipulate with untried stitches, alternative techniques, and new patterns. And, as long as lace knitting remains difficult, I'll be learning that forever. Cables look hard, but they're actually fairly easy. Lace knitting looks hard and IS hard. Each individual stitch requires full attention, even the ones in rows of straight purls. I've been trying to do the Stitch n Bitch Sweetheart Sweater for a few days now. I've started it over three times, and I'm going to have to go for a fourth now. The full lace pattern occurs over 10 rows and I've yet to complete the round more than twice. My piece looks like the ugliest slice of Swiss cheese you'll never eat. This is how every lace knitting project for me goes. I've never completed a lace project.

A pin-hole photo of my knitting from 2006.

This time, with all that I've been experiencing, I am able to really look at that wonky piece of work and see how much I've actually done at all, not only what I'm doing wrong. I managed to complete one set of the pattern only to get halfway through the next to see that the stitches aren't lining up, and no matter what I do that isn't ripping out the done rows, it doesn't look right. But, I managed to complete one set. I practiced that ridiculous pattern over three times now, and I'm only getting better.

I may not finish this sweater. Maybe I will and it will represent some sort of achievement. And, maybe I'll never wear it. But, right now, it's reminding me how much practice makes a difference. With every new turn at this damn sweater, I get better. With every mile I run, I can breath smoother, with every draft I write I get closer to making a connection with other weirdos out there.

Patience 

You can't practice well on a deadline. Lately, I've felt pressed for time. Deadlines have formed out of my own theories and ifs. My phone isn't on silent, yet it sits next to me and I keep checking it for a call I hope to get in time for...something. The phone utters no peep. True, I'd like to be out of my current apartment and into a cheaper one before a certain time, but it's no tragedy if I'm not, only a struggle if one other thing doesn't happen. etc. Overall, there's a dread in my chest simply because I'm trudging through uncharted territory right now.

When I moved into my first very own apartment in 2006, a fresh college grad, I decided I would become a runner. I bought bad tennis shoes at Payless, neglected warm-ups and stretching, and barely considered a training plan. I was out of breath before I started. That didn't last long. The second time I tried taking it up, in 2010 during my early years living in San Francisco, I made the same mistakes again. Both times I had the urge to jump out and run. Fast. Deep inside, it wasn't out of a desire to be healthier or thinner, to be a winner in some timed race. I had something inside of me that was trying to bust out and would only swell uncomfortably when I rushed into easing this restlessness.

When my husband wanted to get in on the running action, he smartly did his research. We started with the attainable Couch to 5k program and it only got better from there. Today, I'm about a quarter of the way through training for a marathon. A fucking marathon, sons of bitches. And, I WANT do to it.

It's probably going to take me over five hours to complete a marathon. I've finished my last half in two hours and thirty-eight minutes. Most of the my I practice running with music blaring, which gets me in the zone and transforms those miles into minutes flying by. During races runners are encouraged to keep the headphones off for safety reasons, but it's also exhilarating to be aware of the party of thudding feet around you. Even without music, during a good race the miles and the minutes fly by. Your mind becomes still while your body is flying.

Now, maybe half of all of my runs are this Zen-like. Of the half that aren't, I usually want to give up on. It's boring and painful. I'm acutely aware of the damage I'm doing to all the bones in my back, knees, shins, feet. Unable to breath into my stomach while my neck and shoulders constrict like I'm a turtle hunching into its shell. I'm saying very eloquently in my head as I look at the time, "Oh come ooooooon mother fuckers!" Sometimes I finish one of these runs and feel terrible.

So, how did I get to the point of wanting to run a marathon? Patience! Whether I run an eleven or a fourteen minute mile, It takes time to finish one. It takes time to complete the nine mile loop. It takes time to reach the point where you can push through the boring miles and truly want to keep going past mile 13.1. I've always been pretty patient and have been able to tolerate long lines, waits for tables and stuff like that. But I've never been so graceful in waiting for answers to where my life will be in a month, a year, five years. Waiting to know if the other shoe will drop or if whatever it is I'm anxious about today will resolve itself. The difference between dealing with the anxiety of waiting five years ago and dealing with it now is that I can think of the patience I'm forced to face when completing a big run. You'll get there. It will be there when you get there. It will end and you'll have a new perspective after it's over. If it's not what you wanted, then you try next time.

Persistence 

But it's true, practice does make perfect--if you can accept perfection as never reaching an endpoint. I like that philosophy, but I do bulk at it when I think of my writing. I said last week that my writing is like a succulent, growing very slowly. Of the hobbies I'm discussing here, writing is the act I do the least. Perhaps because it's not a hobby. It's my calling. It's just what I do. I regard it the highest inside of myself. It's the most mercurial--an idea burns hotly just before I fall asleep only to be completely forgotten the next time I'm by a pen and paper. It mocks me when I draw blanks, It disappoints. It hurts. I really fucking hate it sometimes.

While I'm persistent in my running programs, working my schedule around miles, and I'm persistent in getting that crazy pattern just right even if I retire by the time it happens, I'm just not quite there in my writing. I can't seem to tame it so that I regularly write. I'm trying now, yet again. Every January I come up with a plan. Every following November I ignore NanoWriMo emails. Maybe going back to school will help, maybe letting go and being wild in my writing habits will if I had a better memory. Maybe I just have to quit bitching and do it.

But, persistence. If I can do it running, dragging my high school gym class self through a marathon, counting every single little stitch in a lacy sweater, I should theoretically be able to complete the writing dreams I've had for most of my life.

In conclusion of sorts, I thought of a cool tattoo idea honoring my hobbies and their virtues. In the meantime, please encourage me to keep writing, even if you don't like this blog. :P I encourage you to embrace practice, patience, and persistence the next time you feel frustrated, anxious, overwhelmed, inadequate. As Counselor Troi says in Star Trek TNG "Decent Part I," "Feelings aren't positive and negative. They simply exist. It's what we do with those feelings that becomes good or bad." Q might consider that "pedantic psychobabble," but I think it's Okay for now. TNG rules.

Pittsburgh's Knit the Bridge

Image via Knit the Bridge

I can see the Bay Bridge from my closest Muni stop, and it's a pretty sight. However, there's nothing like the collection of bridges in my hometown of Pittsburgh. I think my favorite of the 30 within the city is the Birmingham with its muted majesty. Oh, and there's the Hot Metal hanging low and heavy over the Mon just downstream. Oh, and the walks across the 10th Street Bridge and the Smithfield Street Bridge that bring back memories. The drastic arches of the 16th Street Bridge. And the terrifying height of the Westinghouse. The traffic of the Homestead Greys Bridge. The welcoming blue hue of the 31st Street Bridge. Oh, and the exhilerating stunts one must pull on the Fort Pitt, and then when you miss your chance to cross over to Crafton and end up on the West End Bridge...

I didn't mention the three golden sisters, the 6th, 7th, and 9th Street bridges, other wise known as the Clemente, the Warhol, and the Carson. Currently, a major community art project, the large yarn bombing in the country, is in development. The Andy Warhol Bridge, which leads commuters from downtown to the artist's home museum, will be covered in hand-knit squares! Knit the Bridge! 

It's part of Fiber Arts International, an annual exhibition going on right now. It's unclear from Knit the Bridge's site when this will launch, but the organization just got clearance from the city in order to even do it. 

If you love any or all of these things, community art, yarn, knitting, bridges, Pittsburgh, consider donating to Knit the Bridge here.

With the amount I donated, I will be receiving a hand-dyed skein of yarn in the official "bridge color." Being able to knit up a scarf with that and wear it here in San Francisco will mean a lot to me as a born-Burgher.

Can't wait to see the finished project, perhaps even in person.

The Enchanted Outsider

Carlow University convent, Pittsburgh, PA Image via: Carlow archives

As I retrieved my new pack of birth control pills from my nightstand this evening, I noticed my third stash of knitting shoved into the drawer. I have three stashes, and this is the least sought probably because the other two are easily accessible among my other craft supplies. This third and often forgotten stash includes two spools of a sock weight wool-acrylic blend, a partially done lace sample from Kool Aid dyed wool yarn, and a nearly completed prayer shawl of Red Heart acrylic. The US size 15 bamboo needles used in knitting this prayer shawl were removed and many of the exposed, sage green stitches threatened to unravel. Tangled among the knotted skein was my new pack of bills.

This shawl began in a magical place. When I tell you what this place is, you may think it's ironic or funny that my birth control pills were found wrapped up in the undone shawl. It's a little ironic, but only a little. The Sisters of Mercy at Carlow wouldn't judge me for using the pills. The group I interacted with for about two months in the spring of 2008 didn't judge me for anything. I never felt more welcomed and more like I could simply be (not even just be myself, but just be), than when I would meet the sisters on Saturday mornings at Carlow.

I went to college at Carlow, lived in the dorm all four years. There is only one dorm building, and only women can live in it. My deepest, best friends lived with me in that building. Our hall on the 9th floor had bras decorating the emergency lights and a carpet stained with spray paint, thanks to us. I loved it there very much.

Since I majored in creative writing, finding a job in my field in Pittsburgh wasn't very possible. What did I do? I went back to Carlow! They gave me a job assisting the Registrar. I printed out class rosters way too many reams of paper and produced new student packets for Freshmen. I took long lunches and  took many breaks wandering the grounds that my friends and I had. On the top of Grace Library, you can see all of South Oakland and a tip of the South Side. I sat there so much all seven years I was associated with Carlow. It's not the best school in Pittsburgh for sure, but it certainly has a lot of charm and spirit. The best way I can describe my connection to it is to say "Carlow is my Rushmore." If you've never seen the movie Rushmore, you should and then you will get it. You should just watch the movie anyway.

Above is the second shawl I worked on. It's three-quarters of the way finished, and I can easily finish it within the week. Though I can keep it or donate it, I kind of want to mail it to Carlow. There, Carol, the convent volunteer who organized the shawl group, would be so excited and gracious to receive it. She'd pick what she believes are just the right charms and prayer card to add to it. She would comment on how lovely she thinks it is. The sisters would nod in agreement. I'm not sure if they'd all remember me, or if there even still there. If they got a random-seeming shawl from a girl in California who says she used to knit with them Saturday mornings, they'd appreciate it no matter what.

I was explaining my enthusiasm for the sisters to Jeremy while I fixed the unraveling line of knitting. I think that they might have thought I was a little strange. What kind of 24 year old woman, gets up at 8 AM, travels on the bus, and knits with a bunch of old Catholic nuns? Well, if you know me, the answer is simple: Angela Bayout would. I barely spoke while there in the craft activity room, which has a window facing out to the campus green and an idol of St Francis.

The sisters, all of whom crocheted by the way, would joke among themselves and reminisce, usually filling me in on necessary details. A favorite story includes a sister who refused to say "breast" when it came to ordering chicken at the butcher. She would ask for "chicken chests." One of the sisters told a story about a funny experience she had as she was falling asleep. She swore it wasn't a dream because, well, she just knew. You know how you just know? She was lying in bed relaxing and in her ear she heard the name "Lucinda" clear as a bell. It was very beautiful, she said, and she had never heard of that name before then. Ever since then, she always liked that name.

They often talked about beauty, beauty in art that they studied, beauty in each other's shawl-in-progress, and just the natural beauty all around them. The stories and subjects were always positive, but most of all they were always honest and genuine. And, they rarely asked me any questions.

I suppose it's a sister's job to simply accept. It didn't matter why I was there or how I got there or what, they always expressed that they were simply glad that I was there. They never asked me if I went to church or even if I was religious in any way. They never asked anything of me or expected anything of me. They never ever asked me, "Why are you so quiet!?" They just expressed a gratitude for my knitting and an appreciation for my presence. It is so stunningly simple how easy it is to make a person feel good.

Being in the convent with them was always both calming and invigorating at the same time. When entering or exiting, I would often get confused since all of the halls sort of looked the same. I always seemed to turn left instead of right or right instead of left and I would end up in the lobby outside of the main chapel. The first time this happened, I was walking quickly so as not to be caught as a strange wanderer, I would almost run right into an idol of The Virgin Mary. She was chalk white, and though I would never have touched her, she looked feather soft. The air in that lobby was light but not thin. I'm stuck on trying to describe it as anything but just peaceful. But, also powerful. But, also completely good and accepting. I don't know, I just found myself caught off guard in this warmly lit, incredibly quiet (like, too quiet) room and I was totally awe struck by the sensation I got.

I might have been taken by the atmosphere, but even in the florescent-lighted craft room I felt that positivity. I think that the women there are just so kind and so loving of "all God's creatures" and all things under the sun, that their positivity fills that building and lifts it up like a flame on a hot air balloon. I think that if they could, they should give themselves more credit.

I am unwilling to say that it was actually, literally the spirit of God I sensed. I suppose I can say that it was the spirit, but I think that the spirit of God is another way of saying that these women exuded so much goodness that it produced some sort of affect on me. The fact that it happened to me at all is good enough for me.

I wasn't ever a Catholic and probably won't be. I don't want to be part of an organization where men do and say some of the worst possible things men can do and say. Most of my experiences with religion have been negative, so I'm not going to join the club. I'm just sort of dazzled by Catholic stuff. I like their grand architecture and Pagan way of things. I don't like that they sometimes feign humbleness with this grand architecture and ignore the obvious Paganism. Mostly, I love their organization of women, very good women. Not all of the sisters at Carlow were this way, but many of the individuals that I encountered over my seven years there were. I don't see them as Catholic nuns who are part of the aforementioned organization that I wish not to be a part of (especially in light of this), but I see them as inspiring women that go beyond aspirations.

Do you personally know a group of people who have or have had a deep affect on you?