On knowing when to let go

I don't frog often. I tink a lot, and I correct a lot of mistakes in various other ways, but I rarely frog. I especially hate completely unraveling an entire project. So when I have a project that clearly won't work out and needs frogging, I have to prepare myself first. I go through a mourning period for the item I had imagined, but that will never take shape. I hope I'm not the only crafter who does this.

I recently frogged my Bex socks. The pattern, by Cookie A, is lovely, with complicated, symmetrical cables that form a diamond-like pattern with ribs of varying widths. Most of the cabling is not very difficult, although there is one complex cable I ran across.

But, for whatever reason, I just didn't enjoy knitting it. The cables are on every single row, which means the progress is especially slow. In the end, I decided the finished socks wouldn't justify the frustration I was experiencing.

So, after about 10 days' mourning, prayer, fasting and soul-searching (okay, I exaggerate, but there really was mourning and soul-searching involved), I declared the socks beyond hope of recovery. I unplugged the needles, removing them slowly and with a heavy heart. Then, I watched as, stitch by stitch, my hands unraveled my work and wound it back into balls of yarn. Unraveling the cast-on was like seeing my project take its last breath. It was sad, but I knew the yarn was in a better place, ready to become something else, something that would inspire joy.

I am at peace with it.