Field Note: Somewhere Over Nebraska

There is perhaps no worse place to keep count than an airport.

Announcements overhead. Boarding groups being called. Someone looking for an outlet. Someone else dragging a suitcase past your feet.

And there I was, crocheting.

I lost count. More than once.

Then, somewhere over Nebraska, I looked down and realized something had gone wrong.

Not just one stitch ago, either.

Three rows.

So I did the only thing there was to do. I started pulling.

Three whole rows disappeared back into yarn as though they’d never happened.

And strangely, I didn’t mind.

There was still something peaceful about it.

Maybe that’s one of the things making teaches us, if we’re willing to pay attention. Progress doesn’t always stay progress. Sometimes you make three rows just to pull them out again. Sometimes you lose count. Sometimes you have to find your place.

The yarn doesn’t care.

You simply pick it up and begin again.

There I was, somewhere between one place and another, going somewhere while sitting perfectly still, making and unmaking the same little stretch of fabric.

And somehow, there was serenity in that.

Not because everything was going right.

Because it didn’t have to.