I have also noted how I begin to care for each stitch: I take care not to lose any as I work, as if the stitches were little sheep. The total number becomes something very important.
But as I learned how to knit, I found myself knitting without counting anymore, and I am fascinated at how the process enters the subconscious: I knit without thinking. I guess it's kind of like in martial arts, when you've practiced the moves so many times that your body responds in the moment, without thought. Though in martial arts, it is more complicated because to think is to become self conscious in a way that makes responding on time impossible.
I suppose it is a 'lower level' concentration - but concentration nonetheless, even if 'lower' - because one is still observing a pattern (unless one is a pro, and creating something unique, but this is clearly something I can only hypothesise about).
These thoughts are gathered here as text to accompany the photo of the scarf I am knitting, which I wanted to be able to link to, so I can find out if I am knitting incorrectly. So, if you knit, you may wish to advise me on knitting tips for beginners, and if not, you may be interested in one more knitting metaphor, below the photo. While knitting may be of a lower level concentration, it is the symbol of that which draws together - or as I feel, herds together, counting every sheep, making sure it's in its place. Knitting is coherence, and in this sense is a hard endeavour. P.S. Click here for the post with a photo of the finished scarf.
Elements: buttons: minitoko;
photo background, doily, cabochons, shipping tag: pugly pixel.
The image of knitting is summoned in Rilke's poem Self-Portrait (trans. Stephen Cohn):
A steadfastness, his one inheritance
from old nobility, has stamped the brows,
but in the eyes still childhood's blue, its fears.
A waiter's or a woman's deference,
although not slavish, shows occasionally.
The mouth is large and what a mouth should be,
not too persuasive, but quite eloquent
enough. A forehead still all innocence
prefers its own shade, stooped reflectively.
All is conjuncture, none of it made whole,
neither by hardship, nor by hard
endeavour knit into a work achieved:
but as if out of all these scattered parts
there was projected something true and real.