Unraveled: A Love Letter To My Most Chaotic WIPS
To the ones I left behind,
You are currently tucked into the dark corners of my office, resting in the velvet shadows of half-zipped project bags and the bottom of wicker baskets. You are tangled, you are dusty, and you are– by all accounts of the word, a mess.
To the “Vacation Stitch” I started in New Orleans: I love you, even if you are 40% cotton, and 60% dried hurricane juice. You were born on a balcony in the French Quarter during Mardi Gras, and you have the uneven tension to prove it. Every time I look at your lopsided borders, I see exactly how many martinis I had before I decided that it didn’t really matter what my french knots looked like. You’re a disaster, but you’re my disaster.
To the sweater with the missing size H hook: Where did it go? Did it run away with my sanity? We were so happy together until about row 47. I’m sorry I abandoned you when the math stopped making sense. Now you sit in a tote bag like a jilted lover, half-unraveled and holding a grudge. I’m sorry I haven’t bought a replacement hook. It feels like cheating. Just know that every time I start a new project, I’m thinking of you (and how much I don’t want to weave in your ends.)
To the “I Can Make That for $10” spite project: We both know I started you out of pride. I wanted to prove I could do it better, faster, cheaper. You took $80 in hand-dyed silk and three years of my life just to tell me I should have bought the one in the store. I love you for being the most expensive “cheap” thing I’ve ever owned. You are proof that sometimes, my ego writes the check that my fingers can’t cash.
To the tangled nest of bobbins at the bottom of my basket: You look like a colorful pasta accident. You are the physical manifestation of my social side– too much yapping, not enough winding. I love you for the chaos you bring to my organized craft bags. You remind me that if I’m not making a mess, I’m probably not having enough fun. But also, I’m too stressed out to fix you.
I may never finish any of you. I may eventually harvest your goods for a newer, shinier “Current Work.” But you were there for the journey, the laughs, and the spills.
You’re a hot mess, but you’re my favorite kind.
Stay Tangled,
Alyssa
