Sometimes things happen that you just can’t control. It’s no
one’s fault, there is no one to blame, and there is no place to justifiably direct
your rage. It’s just life, and bad things can happen to the best of people.
Anyone who has lived more than a handful of years on this planet and isn’t
totally self absorbed knows this. But how do you deal with it? How do you
handle the tragedy? How can you move past it and grieve when there is no one to
blame?
Some people blame anyone they can. They get angry and try to
tear down the world for not being angry with them. Some people curl up and cry
until everything is out and then there’s no hurt left. Some people have a
drink, have a smoke, pop a pill until they’re numb enough not to care.
Do you know what I do? I knit. When the world is
deconstructing itself around me, I construct an object of love. Because that’s
what knitting is, love. It must be if you can spend sixteen hours winding
string around sticks until you have socks. When I’m so upset that my hands are
shaking, and I feel like I want to scream at the sky until it falls down on me,
I pick up my needles and I make something beautiful. Even when all I want to do
is lie on the couch and watch as the moving sun changes the shadows around me. I
do it because knitting makes my grief more manageable.
I’ve done it ever since I started knitting. When my high
school boyfriend cheated on me, I made a scarf. When I didn’t get accepted to a
four-year University straight out of high school, I made a pair of socks. When
all but three of my friends forgot my 20th birthday, I made a kick-ass
winter hat with ear flaps.
And now tragedy is rearing its ugly head again. The beast
hasn’t bitten yet, but it’s in the process of deciding if it’s going to. I find
that the threat of loss is almost as bad as loss itself. You know that
something really bad could happen, and there’s not a damn thing you can do
about it. It’s like I’m sitting on a hillside, watching as a wildfire creeps
from the forest, closer and closer to the city. I know that I can only watch in
horror and pray that it’s either put out, or that everyone makes it out alive.
So while I’m waiting on the outcome, I knit a scarf for
someone I love. It’s almost winter back in Oregon, and I intend to be home by
Christmas. With every stitch, every row, I am one step closer to sanity, one
step closer to getting my emotions reeled back in. It won’t help me to be sad
now, I can only be positive and wait for the beast to either bite or go back to
sleep.
My grief is productive. My grief becomes love. That’s about
as good as I could hope for.
