My grandmother taught me knitting, but I never got to the heel of my stocking, because if I discovered a dropped stitch I insisted on unravelling all my work till I picked it up; and grandmother, instead of encouraging me in my love for perfection, lost patience and took away my knitting needles.

I still maintain that she was in the wrong, but I have forgiven her, since I have worn many pairs of stockings with dropped stitches, and been grateful for them.
And speaking of such everyday things reminds me of my friends, among whom also I find an impressive number with a stitch dropped somewhere in the pattern of their souls.

I love these friends so dearly that I begin to think I am at last shedding my intolerance; for I remember the day when I could not love less than perfection.

I and my imperfect friends together aspire to cast our blemishes, and I am happier so.
There was not much to see from my window, yet adventures beckoned to me from the empty street.

Sometimes the adventure was real, and I went out to act in it, instead of dreaming on my stool.