stitch by stitch

I got back into crochet for the first time since childhood about a year ago.  When Pip was small, I made him one small scarf just to try to remember how.  Then, after Pemberley was born, I found my hands remembering single and double crochet and almost recalling a granny stitch.  I made a couple of hats and I think a scarf last winter.  My friend Miranda gave me a cool crochet learning book that inspired me to try new stitches.  Then my dad's diagnosis came along, and the travel, and my sister's wedding, and finding a new house we love, and moving, and my baby sister making a couple of attempts on her life, and a great deal of intense sadness, and losing an old friend,  and I set it aside for a number of months.

I was sad, y'all.  Stupid sad, anxious sad, working my ass off to function and be a happy mother sad.  I was balancing on the edge of the seawall while a hurricane storm surge tide of sad and grief and old pain and anger pulled right below me.  And I walked hard pressing against all my habits of prayer, leaning into my introversion to let actual quiet try to soothe me.  The waves beat in, and I was all, hell. gasp. no. pray. hell. no.  I am not falling into that motherfucking water of depression.  I prayed, I danced, I read a load of books, I made several new friends, I played, I avoided crowds, I spoke my fears to a few trusted friends, and I practiced being present to my children and husband, knowing that they are my first and closest church.  If I couldn't think of something to teach them, I could always play hide and seek or dance with them. 

But I might still be standing there if it were not for a few good divine interventions:

1. Our prayer team leader noticed I was lying my ass off about being okay, and she prayed right into my pain and broke that fight right up.  She was all, "surely he has born our griefs and carried our sorrows," and a light came back on in my mind.  Oh, yeah, said the anxious part of me.  Well, that's better.
2. My husband started writing an icon over Christmas break.  I have snuck into his work area, and I see his secret prayer scrawls.  The ones who need it most are being prayed right into the Transfiguration.
3. I really got into writing longhand.
4. I started crocheting again.  Do you know one of the earliest spiritual gifts is handcrafting?  God sent the Holy Spirit on hand crafters to make the beautiful things in the tabernacle back in the day.  Christian monks seem to have caught on early, weaving ropes while they prayed or listened or recited psalms.  Even when I wasn't praying, I found that I was praying.

First I found my one half skein of unpacked yarn, which fortunately had a crummy plastic crochet hook stuck in it.  I made it into a double crocheted scarf for the Pipster.  Then I was hooked (ha!).  We went to the craft store and bought a few types of yarn to try and a few sizes of hooks.  I made a beautiful scarf for Pemberley from merino cashmere superwash.   She loves that scarf! She carries it around, adorns herself, primps, puts it on to go on "sidewalk" (her word for outside).  What's that?  Yes, you may see another cute baby photo:

Then I tried to look up some crochet patterns, but they all required too much exactitude for my current lifestyle with tiny wonderful ones needing my attention. So I found this guy Mikey on youtube, with the best crochet tutorials, and I learned the blackberry stitch.  He is seriously great, not going too quickly for you to see where he's pulling the yarn through like some of the teachers online.

So, I started using a wine colored merino cashmere superwash yarn to try out the blackberry stitch.  I wound up wanting more stitches/row, so I increased the number over several rows, achieving a cozy warm beautiful (if irregular) scarf.  

above: the cute baby's mama, plus a blackberry stitch scarf of awesome.

Then, somehow, I found a week or so ago that I had come out of my hole.  I found myself thinking of taking the kids somewhere by myself without abject terror.  On Friday, we met some friends at a park, and I realized how bad the anxiety had been (though I kept it to myself fairly well) when Pip goes, "Oh! Pem has never been to a park before!" Which is not true, but it has been like four months.  

Now I am a little over a foot and a half of rows into a 7'x7'ish afghan made of double crochet and blackberry stitches in the most exquisite Monet water lily hued acrylic homespun.  It is so soft!  I hope to finish it in a week or two.  I try for at least two rows/day.  

Here is how it worked.  I would slip the hook in and remember the harsh words of old friends - the suggestions so active on an anxious mind that I did not have nor could I keep real friends (despite math and all other evidence to the contrary).  Wrap and pull, wrap and pull, and a few rows later, I would realize that I had somehow remembered my real friends, forgotten the words of false ones.  Or I would think of the scariest times with my dad or the horrors faced by my baby sister, and wrap and pull, wrap and pull, I would forgive and pray and ask with every stitch for light to pour upon my sister's mind, for grace to flow into her situation.  Oh, friends!  If I could stitch your hearts back together in this way, it would be done.  

So, I find that I have not only three scarves, a progressing afghan, plans for two gloriously colorful blankets for my tiny shinies, but also a growing dawn in my own soul.  One scarf dulled the pain, and two presented real grace, and three made me aware that I had somehow, in the pulling and planning and counting and weaving, stitch by stitch, forgiven and offered all.  

P.S. I am praying healing into the works now.  I pray that the one who warms herself in this afghan will experience relief from pain, increase of peace and joy, and that she will know when she feels the soft blanket around her, how very much we love her.  I will post photos of the afghan when it's done.

who are we today, and what shall we become?

Yesterday at Pemberley's well baby checkup, I asked the nurse, as usual, to allow me to pray over the vaccine before it was administered.  To my surprise, the nurse joined right in!  She prayed in Jesus' name, and asked blessings on my baby girl.  That was a nice extra lift to the day.

I have long been in the practice of doing what I believe is right, even if it's weird.  It was nice to find a kindred spirit amongst our pediatrician's medical staff.

Where this habit comes most visibly to play, though, is in the ways of the Pipster.  Pip is an unabashed player of dress up.  Often Pip is Princess Fiona.  When he is Fiona, I am Shrek, Pemberley is Donkey, and Papa is Gingy.  This habit of assigning roles to his family members started this summer when I took him to see Once Upon a Mattress.  Pip became Princess Winifred.  I was Lady Larkin, his sister was Sir Harry, and Papa was Prince Dauntless.

After taking up watching the non-violent episodes of Hercule Poirot with his Papa over the holidays, Pip began to assign all new roles for us.  He likes to be either Vera Rossakoff (Double Clue) or "Princess" Bridgid (Royal Ruby).  I am either Captain Hastings or Poirot, alternately with Papa.  Pemberley is sometimes Miss Lemon, sometimes Inspector Japp.

You will notice that gender does not signify when it comes to assigning roles.  Rather, the story is the primary concern.  Well, the story and the wig Pip likes to wear.  He is usually a princess because he knows princesses have long hair in stories.

There are some folks who think my son is socially deviant, but they are rarer than they assume.  In fact, very few people are uncomfortable with Pip.  We get about 5% "Is that his real hair?!" comments,  15% "Awesome hair, dude!" comments (in the 80's hair band theme), 75% "How cute" or equivalent smiles, 3% envying looks from other little kids who want a wig, and 2% middle aged women wondering if our son is gay because they don't know that gender and sexuality are not the same thing, and even if they were, that my son is three and therefore not subject to such questions, being far too young for sex and far too imaginative to give a care.  More often than not, the few weirdos who think I'm socially deviant for letting my son be so are the only ones uncomfortable with Pip's dress up.  They are so self absorved that they believe everyone else will think and judge as they.  Bless their hearts.

In all of these varied reactions to Pip's self expression, there has only been one time when Pip was upset or uncomfortable.  Over Christmas break, when all four of us were at the grocery store together, an old woman approached to inquire about Pip's hair.  She made the facile assumption that we had two little girls (though Pip's clothes are all boy).  When she walked off, Pip expressed his displeasure.  "She said we have two wonderful little girls, but she was wrong.  There are two wonderful little girls, and two wonderful boys. There's Dauntless and Sir Harry (pointing to Papa and Pem), and me and Lady Larkin."  The lady had not taken time to understand the story, which was Pip's primary concern.

I think that Pip's understanding of the primacy of story is the best groundwork for living a Christian life that he could have.  Even though I could not have anticipated how he would express this truth, I'm glad he's expressing it.  When Pip gets to be a teenager preparing for Confirmation, he will ask me about his faith formation.  I'll pull out the photos and say, "Remember the wig?"

more things that don't make you better than everyone else

1. "I read actual paper books."
If that were the end of the statement, fine.  That's cool.  I like them, too.  But it's usually followed by, "e-readers are tacky, wrong, the bane of civilization, and vulgar."  Which?  They're not.  Some people only get a chance to "read" audiobooks, some people, especially those with disabilities, read much more ably on e-readers.  Some persons, such as me, read in the dark.  My Kindle iPhone app has been a lifesaver.  I've read dozens of books in the dark without waking my family over the past couple of years.  I have only managed to read about ten paper books in that time.  Read how you want to read.  Your method doesn't make you better.  Though I would argue that a love of learning, which often accompanies reading of some sort, does make one more alive.

2. Buying bargains.
Whoopdedoo.  Glad you saved some cash, but bargain hunting is not the same as frugality, and even frugality can be misplaced sometimes.  Share the joy, but don't think bargains make you a better person.  If personal growth could be bought, would it really be on sale anyway?

3. Having children whose habits are convenient to your lifestyle.
That's great.  Junior and Juniorina sleep/eat/poop on an adult-friendly schedule.  That doesn't mean you are a better parent than the sleep deprived mom in playgroup or the mom of the seven year old who wets the bed every night.  I am always happy that my friends have children that suit their family.  I am grateful my children do stuff that I find adorable.  But let's face it: none of us really did anything to deserve how awesome our children are.  (I'm glad I have lots of friends who think the same way on this.  I'm picking on the silliness that passes for advice online.)

4. Dieting.
For reals, y'all.  Not every fat person is fat for the same reason.  Not every person seeking to be healthier will diet.  (And not every fat person is unhealthy!) In fact, dieting is not a sign of virtue at all.  Perhaps it may signify that one is practicing self-control, but if that were the case, wouldn't the people in advertisements be able to reign in the self righteousness a bit?  Look, I get it. Health is fun.  But getting healthier does not make one better than others.

5. Eating organic.
I buy organic, local, and sustainable food as often as we are able.  But spending the extra dollar to support the cause does not make me (or anyone else) better than others.

6. Going green.
Hey, cloth diaperers.  That's cool what you're doing, and I admire you.  Same to you composters, vinegar and baking soda, cloth only families who darn things rather than tossing them out.  You know I'm in total support.  I do my best to green around here, too.  But making a more sustainable life doesn't give anyone the right to act like a jerk.  (You have to have a lot more money to have the right to act like a jerk.)

All of the New Years resolutions got me thinking about lots of the little ways we posture to try to act better than our fellow humans.  It's a no go, y'all.  In the important ways (how much we are loved, how much we need grace), we're none of us better.

adornment

For a long time, I have imagined intercessory prayer through the lens of that beautiful passage in the Revelation to John about the trees growing along the river of life.  "The leaves of the trees are for the healing of the nations."  Often, as I begin to pray, I imagine holding out my hand and having those leaves fall into my open palm.  So, I got a tattoo of flowers and leaves on my left hand. It's only henna, but I may begin stages on an inked one in a few years if it turns out that I still want one then.  In the meantime, I plan to have a henna tattoo there most of the time.

 Above: The henna was still on.  The lady who applied the design at Katie Beth's Learning Garden added beautiful red and gold glitter to enjoy while the henna set. Below: The tattoo after it had cured for a day and a half.  It's slightly darker now, though some parts are already wearing off (I wash my hands a LOT as a stay at home mom). 

 I never really considered tattoos before, but recently I have been craving one on my left hand.  Those leaves have become so much a part of the way I think that I expect to see them there with my eyes.  I have had the tattoo for six days now, and I was forgetting it was there by Tuesday.  That day, I went to mail packages and conversed with the inked UPS store worker about his tattoo symbolism.  Apparently my experience is de rigeur.  The young man's tattoos all had deep symbolic meaning to him.  He told me about his next tattoo: angel wings on his back, one full and glorious, the other withered, to commemorate his grandparents, all of whom passed away right in a row from cancer not long ago.  "How beautiful!" I said, seeing right away that his ink was a perfect way to honor them. There is something visceral about adorning one's person, about telling a story on one's body.

Above: I didn't mean to make such an emo portrait there.  I just mis-aimed my iPhone.  

I recently started wearing jewelry again when I leave the house, and I find that I missed it a great deal.  Not in the same way as I would miss seeing the leaves, though.  The jewelry is a different sort of reminder, of putting on and taking off duties to oneself and society, of the mitzvah of rejoicing.  One wears jewels as much for others as for oneself. 

But these little leaves and flowers here on my hand, they are an aid to prayer and blessing. Where is grace?  It has already been given.  Grace is resting right in your hand. 

In a way, I suppose my recent motivation for adorning my skin is related to mourning my father.  We are dust, and to dust we shall return.  His tattoos and mine will turn to dust.  But the grace that infuses these hands, the grace given in the Incarnation, surely that must remain.

to lighten the mood

I saw a bunch of ads for forced bulbs and found myself saying the above, in regard to their strong smell.  But then inspiration struck.  You're welcome.

when the internet actually helps

I have struggled these past months with a lingering hatred for my pedophile uncle.  Framing the problem in terms of sin, I thought I must be harboring some sort of mortal malice.  Every time I paused for self examination, I would face my own woundedness, not in what he did to me, but in my desire to kill him.  I was so frustrated.  I thought I had forgiven him, and yet here is all this anger, this malice, this will to kill him.  I tried reading the fathers about the passion of anger.  I tried reading Bonnhoeffer about how we bless someone when we say, despite all that has happened, I recognize you as one whom God has claimed as his own.  No dice, y'all.  My reasonable mind was at war with the reptile brain, which was ready to unleash its venom. 

Then, in desperation, I googled "How to Stop Hating Someone."  Most of the stuff that came up was banal and unhelpful, surface stuff meant for people who wer just jealous of someone or disliked someone for a petty reason.  Nothing approaching the visceral hatred that confounded me when I found it festering. But one brief page actually helped.  It explained that hatred is the mind's last line of defense against weakness and encouraged the reader to ask why s/he felt weak.  In a matter of moments, the dots connected for me.  I felt myself safe all these years because of my dad.  He was the only one who stood up for me against my uncle.  It was his threat, "if you touch her ever again, I will kill you," that stopped the abuse.  When did my hatred for my uncle show itself?  Last April, around the time I learned that my dad had a year to eighteen months to live, that he is slowly dying of paralysis.  I went through a list with my reptile mind: I have put a great deal of physical distance between the uncle and my children, he does not have a way to contact me directly, I can use my words, I can use the law, I can even resort to nonviolent physical barriers to protect my children.  I speak out about what he did so that my realtives are on guard.  I know that my cousins, very large built men, would be willing to make a human wall between us at my dad's funeral.  I know that as a last resort I would harm my uncle to keep him from my children, though I also know that will not  be neccesary. 

The hatred subsided, and I found myself unburdened by the sin of rage.  Is this what Jesus meant when he said to be wary as serpents but innocent as doves?  I am wary, but no longer hating. 

why I don't mind the mess

I have given the impression that I am unhappy.  But it's more like I'm happy and also sad, and the sadness urges me to ditch everything except what aids in happiness.  I have had to take a break from leading children's choir, even though I love leading it (such great kids!) because the stress of uneven attendance at rehearsals caused me too much anxiety.  I have not blogged much because, well if I'm honest, because I've been reading a lot.  But reading lowers my anxiety level as well.  Plus the gym, plus baking for our upcoming British Accent Christmas Tea (so much fun finding the prizes!), plus just playing with these great children.  Even though I get a little stressed at the end of the week when I see the piles of o cereals and other kid detritus waiting to be swept up and away, I don't mind the process of creating the mess.  How could I, when copious amounts of flour strewn over every surface in the dining room produces so much joy?

I am looking forward to seeing lots of friends at upcoming Christmas gatherings.  Funnily enough, they are all tea parties this year!  Maybe that's why they are low-stress.  Even if I'm dull and dumb from sleep deprivation or grief or whathaveyou, I can always rise to the challenge of tea.