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Category: Living through Loss

Putting to Rights

So much for the stories we tell ourselves.

Over the course of the six weeks of recovery following my fall and subsequent surgery, any claims to orderliness, perhaps even to organization, at least in terms of my immediate physical surroundings, fell apart. So much for the idea that if one has systems in place, they will keep everything running during the bad times — for a week or two, perhaps; for a month and a half, not really.

Of course as you know from previous posts, the vegetable garden ramped into production about half-way through the healing process, and much cooking and canning was taking place. This took all my energy, perhaps more than I should have allowed, because there were also days where I would collapse, spent, on the sofa, unable to knit even, much less vacuum. Pig-headed determination has its good side, but even determination needs to be curbed at times.

Just as my energy levels were becoming more consistent, Tikka, my cuddly pup and travel companion, took a turn for the worse. Truthfully she had been failing for some time and I had been in denial. We spent much of the weekend following my last blog post cuddling, although it soon became evident that her time was up. The end actually came very quickly, for which I am grateful. She was at least 11 years old, but truthfully, she could have been older. I will never know. Just as I will also never really know if it was I who rescued her or she who rescued me.

The last two weeks have proven to be not so much a time for thinking or creative exploration, but instead, a time for mindless expenditures of energy.

What do you call spring cleaning when it takes place in August? When it takes place in an already upside-down year? A resettling perhaps? In some sense perhaps even a retrenchment, although I am taking liberties with that word. It has been over a year since I moved into this house, but barely a year since the work of contractors was finished. One year: six months of the busy normalcy of my former life, a life that now seems distant enough to feel almost foreign; six months of a world in the process of being transformed, although I am not sure we are quite ready to admit that yet.

Truthfully there seems to be a lot of denial and magical thinking going on. I am no better than anyone else on that front.

I cleaned the house from top to bottom. Well I haven’t tackled the basement level yet, but that is next on the agenda. There were books to shelve, so I dusted and reorganized the bookshelves. That should be an annual task anyway. The same for the kitchen. As I’ve discovered a revitalized love of cooking, I’ve noticed a need to reorganize and regroup, to accommodate my own evolving priorities and waves of energy. Cooking for one is not like cooking for two. Cooking in my 60s is not the same as cooking in my 30s or even my 50s. Luckily for me there has been a lull in garden production during the past two weeks, just enough produce for daily meals and nothing more, but that is about to turn. When it happens I will be prepared.

No promises here. It seems I am perfectly happy to assign myself two or three tasks to accomplish in a day but also perfectly content to spend long hours sitting and reading, to allow a cat to sleep in my lap, perhaps to knit again.

All in all, I think that is a good place to be, doing what needs to be done but content to leave it at that, willing to accept the simple satisfaction that life as it is lived is enough. At the moment it is raining. My book and my knitting call.

August 29, 2020
Promise

Wednesday there was some excitement at the (new) house:

A painting was delivered. I was very excited. Although it had nothing to do with the work that is being done in the house, or the reason I have not yet moved in, I was happy to be able to get the painting up before the furniture, and very happy to see it on the wall.

(the artist discussing his work)

Later in the day, I began to question myself. It was the anniversary of George's death, a date I know well, and I even, perhaps stupidly, used as the alarm code on the old house. At that time, when I put in that alarm, it was perhaps the only number that mattered, the date of loss, of untethering. Not so much anymore. But I had forgotten. I wouldn't have thought about it at all except for a series of family emails commemorating the loss. I wondered if perhaps there was something wrong with me that I did not remember, did not hold that date close, did not feel pain or loss. For me that time is past, but it is also important to gather around to support each other in our individual paths and struggles.

Intellectually I can say it is an interesting coincidence, that this painting in this house, this expression of future movement, should be installed on this date. George would have found it humorous. But George is gone and I am here, and, although he is always with me, life is about moving forward and letting go, even of love. In fact love itself is a kind of letting go, of not holding on too closely. You know, of course, that we don't love people less because life moves on without them. Love is like that. It makes us more ourselves than we ever knew we could be, but it also gives us strength and resilience, at least if we let it, so that we can overcome great wounds, even when that wound entails the ripping away of a part of ourselves. There is no life without relationship, just as there is no life without suffering, and to thrive we must share in both. To convince ourselves otherwise is to live in denial, which, is perhaps, not to fully live at all.

For me, at least, it was better to hang a painting.

The past makes us who we are. The people we have loved, and who have loved us, are our personal saints. They are woven into the fabric of ourselves. But we are not our pasts. It is the future that beckons, and the future is what we have been made for.

May 12, 2017
On Weeding Out and Celebrating Blossoms

Roses and azaleas in the front yard:

There was a period of a few weeks from the end of March through the first half of April where I committed myself to too many disparate things and I felt a little scattered. Some of those projects were things I really wanted to do, and others were things I agreed to just because I was available. Oh wait, maybe I wasn't really available, or maybe I shouldn't have been available. It seems a bit of recalibration and sorting is in order.

In the midst of all this busyness, a person whom I hope will become a friend, made a comment that brought me up short and set me to thinking. My interpretation of the comment was not at all the way it was intended, but it was what I needed to hear at the moment for it brought me up short and made me realize that I have been drifting along on autopilot, and although I realize, and say, that I am doing well, and am finally at a point where I can focus on myself, I have actually been rather bad at exactly that.

Two weeks from today will be the 3rd anniversary of George's death. 10 weeks from today will be my 58th birthday. In many ways I've gotten my focus back, my energy back, and my ability to be at home by myself with little risk of falling into the slough of despond. And yet, I haven't quite accepted that priority of self yet. There are things I want to pursue, things that make me happy, things that mesh with my gifts, talents, and inclinations, but I haven't always given myself permission to put myself first, to honor those gifts, to honor those needs. For a couple of years after George's death I needed to busy; I needed to be busy outside of myself, and I became very good at keeping myself occupied. Too occupied in fact. Too occupied with stuff that was really not the best use of my time and interests, too occupied with stuff that kept me from doing what I really need and want to do.

So I've been engaged in a bit of spring cleaning: physically, mentally, and emotionally. I am in the process of pulling out of a few things that aren't right for me, and I've put out feelers toward some projects that are better uses of my skills and interests. It is a good process, but sometimes a rocky one, and hence I've been a bit inconsistent here on this blog. Well, I've been a bit inconsistent overall.

One problem I've noticed is that once I give myself permission to set aside time for myself, for the things I want to do, I have to actually figure out what those things may be. It is a process of discovery, a process that yields occasionally surprising results. Something that, at a distance, seemed like a precious flower proves only to be a weed. Sometimes weeds prove to be the most beautiful flowers. It appears to be a slow process, but I am learning.

In the meantime I am in the garden again. At this point this involves mostly weeding, digging and grunt work. I am behind schedule. As you can see if you look closely, weeds still rule. The garden is not where I hoped it would be, I will not plant everything I hoped to plant. I missed an opportunity by occupying myself elsewhere, and yet at the same time, I have learned that some things I thought would be difficult are easier on my back than I had presumed. This has lead to dreams of grandeur and future gardens, although at this point there is really no evidence that I can keep up with the garden I have. But we shall grow together this garden and I, through whatever mis-steps and surprises come our way.

April 26, 2016
This Fragile Place

It has been a week and I have not written about Paris. Such is not out of character. I tend to avoid commenting on many things. But I see this is not necessarily possible. It is not that my sadness has not joined the world's sadness at this atrocity. And yet words have failed me, not just here and now but all week. I suppose I was trying to shape the words, trying to write something grand, not letting my heart say what it wanted to say, not letting the words be what they needed to be.

In a watershed moment, I reread Eve Ensler's play, Necessary Targets, which had been heavily on my mind as I contemplate both the sadness and loss and the complicated dance of anger, cries for retaliation, cries for peace, and various knee jerk reactions that have surged through the media. Some of these reactions upset me even more than the tragedy itself, as it is feeding our fear that leads into further darkness. Feeding our fear does not honor the dead; it objectifies them yet again, using them as a means to an end, and end that merely leads to more bloodshed and more death; feeding our fears means the terrorists have won, they have won the battle for our souls.

But what does a play about Bosnian Refugees have to do with bombings in Paris?  Absolutely nothing. Absolutely everything. I saw the play in the summer of 2000, before the terrorist attacks in New York, before so much it seems, but the play has remained with me. The book came out much later, but in reading the words of the play, I still hear the voices of those actresses from that summer long ago, I still feel that shock of recognition and compassion and awareness, the same shock that Paris brings: The compassion for the families, the shocked realization that these were people just like us, that we, too, are not safe, that this place in which we live our lives in relative peace and safety is such a fragile place, and we hold beauty and compassion far too lightly.

It is easier for us to distance ourselves from the horror of war, of tragedy, when we cannot relate it to ourselves, to our lives, to our actual experiences and the people and/or places we know. We could distance ourselves from the horror of Bosnia, mostly because most of us were not familiar with Bosnia before the war. We can distance ourselves from the hundreds of innocents who die in the Middle East because we do not think of them as innocents, as individuals, but as shell people, the other, with whom we are at war. We set up boundaries and distance ourselves, just as the two women who went to Bosnia in Ensler's play distance themselves from the women they are purportedly trying to help.

One of the powerful figures in this play, Zlata, was a pediatrician, formerly head of pediatrics at a major urban hospital, a woman who once led a civilized, urban life, a life we would recognize in New York or Chicago or San Francisco. As she spoke I could easily imagine her, stopping for coffee on the way to work, chatting with friends and colleagues, easy and comfortable in her life:

"You don't understand that this happened to us–to real people. We were just like you, we weren't ready for this–nothing in our experience prepared us–there were no signs–we weren't fighting for centuries–it didn't come out of our perverted lifestyle–you all want it to be logical–you want us to be different than you are so you can convince yourselves it wouldn't happen there, where you are. That's why you turn us into stories, into beasts, Communists, people who live in a strange country and speak a strange language–then you can feel safe"

Paris is different. Paris is not a war zone. Paris hits far too close to home. Paris shocks us out of our complacency. The people who died were people just like you and me. They had mothers, siblings, children of their own. The terrorists too had mothers, they too are more than just the other, more than just terrorists, because surely once they were people not so different from any of us. We do not know. Necessary Targets brought home to me how much we build walls around ourselves, thinking our safety, our boundaries, and our bubbles protect us, but they do not.

I mourn for the families of those who died in Paris. But those families are no different from all the other families of those who have died, some of them in war zones, some of them innocents, some of them killed by our own bullets and missiles. I mourn for those who have died because of poverty and neglect, those who have suffered because we are too good at distancing ourselves and setting boundaries, because we are too good at believing our boundaries protect us.

I mourn for the soldiers. I mourn for those who succumb to the power of fear, who think that revenge and retaliation is the answer when it is really just a path into further darkness. By striking back we give the terrorists what they want; we justify their holy war, we justify their actions, and the dead become sacrifices. I mourn for the mothers of those terrorists, for surely no mother wants such a fate for her babies. Who will hold the mothers and comfort them in their grief? Already we pull back, guilt by association.    We build walls and more walls and believe that our strength is in our walls. But it is not. Our strength is not in denying evil. Our strength is in learning to overcome it, learning to connect to each other and love each other despite its presence, because it is present in all of us. Our strength is in our compassion.

Zlata again:

"I used to think it was the leaders, that men really made this war because of their hunger for power. But now I really believe it's in all of us–this thing, this monster, waiting to be let out. It waits there looking for a reason, a master, an invitation. If we are not aware of it, it can conquer us."

I mourn for the children who may become terrorists, and through them for all of us, because how can we know what our children will become? We like to think it cannot happen to us, that we are protected, that our children our protected. But in fact we cannot know this, cannot know what our children see and know and hear and feel, not completely. We cannot know. Even at our very best, most loving, most careful, we cannot know. History tells us that we cannot even know what we may be become. Again and again we fall. There is no perfect mother. There is no perfect place. There is no perfect safety.

We fool ourselves when we believe that beauty and kindness and safety will protect us. We fool ourselves. We take our safety and our beauty for granted, and we do not recognize what we have.

"…..beauty. Bosnia. Bosnia was beautiful. The song of Bosnia, the world of Bosnia that flows cold clean in the stream and tastes of a full meal. Bosnia, the snowy mountains, the green green hurt heart of Bosnia, the kindness we shared, how we lived in each other's warm kitchens, in sunny cafés, …… It isn't the cruelty that broke my heart. Cruelty is easy. Cruelty, like stupidity, is quick, immediate …. Cruelty is generic. Cruelty is boring, boring into the center of the part of you that goes away. We are dead–all of us–to the suffering. There is too much of it — but remind us of the beauty, the beet fields in full bloom, the redness of the fields. Remind us how we once sang, how the voices echoed as one through the landscape of night and stars. Remind us how often we laughed , how safe we felt, how easy it was to be friends. All of us. I miss everything — Bosnia was paradise"

It is our compassion that saves us, that connects us to each other, that makes us whole. We will not win this war by blowing each other up. We may win the battle, but we will lose the war. We don't win by building higher and stronger walls. We don't win by reducing people to the other, by building better boundaries. We win through connection, by opening our hearts to each other. We win by making those small connections, by listening, by actually seeing the people we meet every day, by seeing and honoring them as people just like us, separated only by a happenstance of fate, as people with all their complexities and contradictions and fears and hurts. Only then, if we connect to others, and they in turn connect to those around them, can we hope to overcome pain and fear and the violence and yes, the evil that pain and fear build. Only by hurting can we overcome hurt.

In Ensler's play, the psychiatrist, J.D. learns to open her heart, and is slowly transformed from the cold, distant, analytical psychiatrist, into a different person, one who finds happiness despite pain. She finds that she is no different, and no better, than anyone else:

"Marching. Marching through people's brains. I don't murder people, well, I do, really. I kill them with all my boundaries and rules and perfect training"

Love one another. Listen to each other. Celebrate. Do not take beauty for granted. Do not let fear drive you, but embrace it and learn to laugh in its face and rise above it. Do not hold onto hurt, but let it go, use it to help someone else heal. Beauty and darkness, good and evil, only annihilate each other if we let them.

November 20, 2015
Anniversary

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so,

For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and souls delivery.

Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,

And better then they stroke; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

            - John Donne

George passed away two years ago today.

Many assume that this is a difficult time, and many have asked me if I am bearing up well, and I assure them that I am. I am not sad. It has been a week of reflection, a week of introspection, and yet also a week filled with peace. Grief is forever, but although we always hold those we have loved and lost in our hearts, the time of mourning fades. Today is a day of honor and memory but the pain of loss has been blunted by time.

But then, in many ways I was lucky. I lost my friend, my companion, my lover, my soul-mate. I lost him gradually, over a long period of time. And death was both the final blow and the release.   For in death George was released from his long slow decline, was released from the indignity of living with a body which he could no longer control, a body which could no longer control itself. In death George was released from pain.

I was lucky in the very slowness of that loss even though I did not necessarily always see it as luck at the time. In fact, I wasted far too much time in angry self-pity, wasted too much time railing against fate and God, wasted too much time wanting my old life back and resenting what had been taken from me. I see now that all that anger and grief was necessary. I see now that I was given a very special gift: I was allowed to both grieve and celebrate the life of my husband simultaneously. I believed that letting go of my anger and myself I was helping George, but by letting go, I was also allowing him to help me, allowing myself to begin to heal.

I knew I would marry George the second or third time I met him. Apparently he too felt that same pull, that same knowledge, that this was meant to be. That doesn't mean that it was always easy. Does not mean that we were always happy, but it does mean that we both knew that there was some something worth fighting for, something worth hanging on to through thick and thin, loss and yes, even death. You see, although I didn't want to lose George, and George certainly didn't want to lose me, didn't want to die, we both knew that death was inevitable. Life is filled with death, with horror and tragedy, but through it all life also offers opportunities for love. And love transforms us and transcends death. Losing George, fighting that battle with him, being there for him, loving him, taught me about the spiritual side of life through death, or is it the spiritual nature of death through life? Through losing George I allowed myself to see what I always knew was there, to experience in my heart and my soul what I had previously known only in my head, not in that completely accepting, open, and pure way that one can only find through suffering, through loss, through death.

When George was dying I was accused of wanting him to die, told he was only dying because I wanted to be rid of him, be free. It was not true that I wanted to be free; it was not true that I wanted him to die, wanted to lose him. But I did know that it was time for him to die. All things die, all of us must die, and George was ready, finally ready. It was his time. His body was failing, was incapable of the most simple and necessary functions to maintain life. His body was failing and worst of all, despite his dementia, he knew it, knew it with a peace and clarity that stuns me to this day. George taught me how to die.

That doesn't mean I was ready to live without him. Life as a couple takes it own form. One is oneself, but at the same time one is both less than and more than merely oneself. For a long time I didn't know quite know who I was supposed to be, how I was supposed to live. To all outward purposes I was the same person I had always been, but each day a decision had to be made, a decision to accept being myself, only myself. Hilary Mantel captures a sense of that sense of lost self well in this passage from Wolf Hall:

There were days, not too long past, days since Lizzie died, when he'd woken in the morning and had to decide, before he could speak to anybody, who he was and why. There were days when he'd woken from dreams of the dead and searching for them. When his waking self trembled, at the threshold of deliverance from his dreams.

Eventually I found myself again. More exactly I rediscovered the path of finding myself. We are always finding ourselves; if we stop looking, stop searching, stop growing, we begin to die. But those we have loved are also always a part of us. They are present in our hearts, in who we are, in the ways we have become the people we have become. I believe George is present wherever he is now, and somehow, at times, his shadow touches mine.  Death is merely an interruption, a short trip to a distant land where we will at some point be reunited, will be reunited with all who loved us, all who we loved.

Without death there is no life. Now is a time for life. And yet, "Death, thou shalt die".

May 10, 2015
Farewell

Yesterday afternoon we scattered George's ashes in the Hudson River. It was a small but perfect group of family and close friends. Although I could not help hoist the Clearwater's main sail, which I had indeed done in the past, since I have not yet built up enough strength following my back surgery and it is hard work. George's children and several friends did help though, and he would have been proud. He of course, when he was able to do so, would have been pulling with the others.

We were blessed with the perfect day. Hot yes, but there was a breeze on the water, and the humidity, although present, was tolerable. But mostly the day was special because family and friends were together, here, in the Hudson Valley, on the river George so dearly loved. Although he hadn't sailed in years, he had loved to sail, loved boats, and particularly loved the Hudson River. In the earlier years of our marriage we had even taken a few public sails on the Clearwater, although most of our time together on the Hudson was spent in a canoe, and since George liked to be out on the water, not hugging the shore, more often than not we were rowing across the river and back. A flotilla of canoes did not really strike me as a suitable option however, and the Clearwater proved to be the perfect setting for launching George's remains to the water and land he so dearly loved.

I have to admit that when Owen and I released George's ashes into the breeze, watching them float in the air, catching the light and settling on the water, it was a beautiful moment. The past year has not always been easy, but we have reached a place from whence it is easier to move forward. Being on the water, on the boat, together, sharing memories, catching up, and looking forward to the future, was a good way to share and remember the many ways in which we have been shaped and touched by those we have lost, and how their influence continues to float in our spirits, always a part of us.

Photo of Clearwater from Clearwater.org.

Raising the sail.

My step-son, Adam, assisting with lowering the sail.

July 13, 2014
Looking Backward, Moving Forward

I am not as stoic as I sometimes pretend to be.

This morning caught me by surprise; not the fact that it was morning, just that I somehow wasn't quite ready for it.

I went outside to look at the soffitts at the side of my house. They need repair. They weren't put in correctly to begin with and now it is a bit of an expensive issue. Not that I ever really believed a new house was that much more maintenance free than an older house.

Then I was tired, my left leg was numb, and I was lying down, looking out my small window at the dry patchy grass on the hill behind my house, thinking about the landscaping that hadn't been done this spring. And I remembered the view I used to have.

This view.

I started thinking about my former house, and the open flow of the space, and the deck. I thought about how we would go out on a summer morning and take an early dip in the pool before settling down with our cups of coffee. I thought about the fig tree that would sit on the deck all summer (you can see it in the photo below). The first crop of figs would be getting ripe about now.

I would think about all the good things and the good times. And I started to cry and cry and I couldn't stop. I wasn't really missing the place you see, although that was part of it. But the place is only important because of the people I shared it with, most importantly the person whose presence made that place my home. I wanted my old life back, my life with George. I wanted to go back to a time when I didn't have to deal with everything by myself. I wanted to go back to the safety of that deep voice and those strong arms.

George was the one who was good at playing hard-ball. Arguing with the builder or the homeowner's association or a lawyer was sport to him, and he liked to win. Me? I just want to silently fix the problem and avoid all the arguments and politics and bickering over who is to blame and who should do what. I can do what I have to do, but I surely don't enjoy it.

But that time is gone. I have wonderful memories. I also have family here, and wonderful friends, and much to be happy about. I even have friends on the HOA board. Oh wait, I'm on the HOA board. Piece of cake. As I said, I can do what needs to be done.

But that doesn't mean I'm not lonely sometimes. It doesn't mean that I don't cry. Actually it is good to cry. There was during the last year of George's life that I had stopped crying and I worried that I had stopped feeling. I worried that I would never really care about anything again. I was wrong. And that is a very good thing.

I'm having surgery tomorrow, a discectomy to remove the piece of disk material that is compressing my sciatic nerve. It is an outpatient procedure and I should be home tomorrow night. I am both excited and nervous, and I am sure all the anticipation contributed to my teary breakdown. I am eager to walk and sit again. Even so, I've decided to give myself a brief blog break on Thursday, so you won't hear from me again before Saturday.

The pictures all appeared previously on either this blog or one of my other blogs. The last one was taken from the master bedroom window.

May 13, 2014
Reflections in a Mirror

I've been thinking about mirrors again. It all began because I finished a sweater and I thought I should photograph it. Since the particular sweater was a fairly easy knit, two basic rectangles, a photograph of the sweater itself, laid flat, seemed pointless. This meant I needed to capture a photo of me wearing the sweater and this became a problem… but not necessarily for the reasons one might automatically assume.

It seems I have no particular issues with taking a photo, of how I look in the photo, except that I just do not at this point feel like posing for a photo. I thought a mirror would be better. I thought I could hide behind the camera, again not because I have particular issues with how I look, but, surprisingly to me, I have issues with the reflection in the mirror as a reflection of who I am.

But wait. That last sentence resonates in my brain. I'll repeat. I have issues with the reflection in the mirror as a reflection of who I am. I know who I am. I am in one sense becoming more integrated than I have felt in a long time. And yet… And yet, I don't know who I am. The world has changed and I don't yet know who I am in the context of this new world.

When someone we love dies, we not only lose this other person whom we hold dear, we lose a part of ourselves. My father died when I was 25. It was a very rough period for me. I was, at the time, coming to terms with aspects of my personality that were much like my father, and they were not always characteristics of which I was proud. I was learning that those very issues that seemed to be the most intense between us where reflections of the very ways we were alike, even though our experiences were different. When he died, in some sense I was no longer his daughter, or I was, but the dynamic living part of that equation was removed, and the focus of my struggle moved from being external to internal. At the same time I missed him, I missed the papa who told me stories, and I regretted that I had not yet reconciled my own coming-of-age, with the memories of the papa of my youth.

And so here I am, once again a stranger in a strange land, the land without G defining part of my existence. G and I were together for 30 years and our 27th wedding anniversary would be this coming October. And I realized, with some shock, that I had been dealing with loss and the gradual loss of this person I hold dear for over half of that time, 18 years to be exact, I can remember that first shift as if it were yesterday, not 1995.

Not only do I need to define who I am as a person who is not part of an "us" I also need to define myself as a person who is not dealing with a constant battle againt loss. I need to define myself as a person unburdened. Many things were cast aside during that time and the road was steep, often rocky, and filled with potholes. In retrospect I harbor no real regrets. I did what I had to do with the inner resources I had available to me at the time. And although things were lost, other things were gained, and there is much joy in those small victories.

But now I find myself battle weary, alone, and oh so very tentative. Oh I have friends. I do not despair. But each of those things that were given up were a death of sorts, and they pile up onto that bigger void, the death of the loved one, and with that death, the end of the war that defined an entire period of my adulthood. And the absense of these things is palapble. There are moments of clarity and sunshine, and periods of fog. No wonder I prefer the fractured view. I still feel fractured myself.

Here is a better view of me wearing the new sweater. It is a simple thing really and exactly what I needed to be knitting now, an instant gratification project to rekindle my love of yarn and the joy of creating a sweater. Apparenlty it is perfection other ways too, not just as a knit: simple yet obscure, solid and yet open, hiding yet revealing. Oh my, I didn't think of all that until I looked at this photo.

(And yes, I love the upside down view as well. I intentionally leave the magnifying mirror in exactly this position so I can see myself upside down every time I walk into the room. It reminds me that nothing is as it seems, not to jump to conclusions, and most of all, not to be too serious.)

If you want details about the sweater itself, or a scarf which is in a tentative state of completion which in some ways mirrors my own tentative state, you can find that information here. It seems that sleeping blogs might live again.

August 29, 2013