Friday afternoon. I sit at my desk in the heavy afternoon sunshine, making slow but steady progress on my Shalom cardigan, savoring every stitch of this gorgeous alpaca and tussah silk.
Also on my desk is my first little foray into stranded knitting, which was one of my fiber-arts resolutions this year. Even in its unblocked, unfinished state, it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy to see what I've made.
That's what I'm doing at my desk this Friday afternoon, on one level. On a deeper level, what I'm really doing is procrastinating on my dissertation proposal. deep, sad sigh.
This is interesting to me: In knitting, I happily take on new challenges (fair isle) and progress through the tedious parts of larger projects (yoke of a sweater) with nary a flicker of self-doubt or anxiety. In 'real' life, even just thinking about working on my proposal sends me through hours of paralyzing, painful self-criticism and angst. How can a person be so functional and competent in knitting and so dysfunctional in the rest of life? Something to meditate on.
And, yes, in case you're wondering, this post falls under the category of procrastination ...