grief

Book Review Tuesday: Knitting Yarns: Writers on Knitting by Ann Hood

November 12, 2013 by admin

Don’t knit? Don’t write? It doesn’t matter. Knitting Yarns: Writers on Knitting is really a book about life. Yes, there are a few patterns in the book for anyone who wants them, but with passion and humor, a variety of writers share their stories of what knitting means to them.

What I love about this book is that these writers are, for the most part, not great knitters. Some have given up on the craft altogether. Others work hard to get to the “good beginner” level. Rather than conjuring images of contented grandmothers creating magic with some yarn and needles, these writer/knitters are often clumsy with a needle, reporting plenty of tears and dropped stitches. A rare exception is the writer who is a skilled knitter, but who discovers her perfectionism when teaching others, seeing how that perfectionism stifles joy.

Parents and grandparents, now gone, are remembered lovingly, along with tinges of regret for words left unsaid, thanks withheld. One writer/knitter makes endless sweaters for his dog, who is quite the fashionista. Another writer/knitter, a longtime lesbian, is surprised to fall in love with a man who knits. Each essay brings its own unique surprise.

My favorite essay is To Knit a Knot, or Not: A Beginner’s Yarn by John Dufresne. I love the way he knitted memories into the now, easing back and forth with the confidence of an experienced writer, much as an experienced knitter eases through a difficult project. Plus, he’s pretty darn funny.

Ann Hood came to knitting through grief when her young daughter died, and it’s no surprise that she would provide such a book, filled with everything from turbulence to joy. That’s been my experience with knitting; it has the power to show our lives to us, and to smooth the rough edges if we let it.

Stronger Than That

October 17, 2012 by admin

Up in the wilds, where the state of Washington meets the roaring waters of the Pacific, Nature demonstrates her greatest power. Trees, uprooted and tossed like toothpicks, land like daggers impaled in the sand. After a dry summer, a record-setting rain pelts the area, littering branches on the road. We dodge them and the standing water. Near Neah Bay, a rock slide causes us to slow the car.

Here at the end of the world, the farthest northwestern point on the Lower 48, it’s hard to imagine that for centuries the Makah Indians carved out a living here, quite literally, as they hollowed-out cedar trees to make boats for whale hunts. They traversed heady waters in these canoes, bringing food (tasting like cow, one Makah gentleman told me) to the tribe. The Makah were not relocated here by the white man; they lived here all along. Descended from Canada’s natives, the Makah reservation shrank over time with treaties left unfulfilled, but still exists. In Neah Bay, the Makah have a museum which proudly displays artifacts rare in that they were not captured by Europeans, but uncovered during an archeological dig. They are preserving their past and their language.

We are here to hike. We spend Friday on Rialto Beach not far from Forks (yes, Twilight fans, THAT Forks), where we will base for the weekend. We crawl over logs and rocks, colorful as though they, like the leaves, have turned vivid for autumn. The wind is at our backs, blowing rain onto the backside of our clothing, soaking us through. It’s the first rainy weekend of the season, and it feels appropriate. We walk the beach at low tide, our feet sinking into sand. Others pass us on the path, and we are all grinning, enlivened by the rough weather.

A view of the “Hole in the Wall” at Rialto Beach, Washington State

Saturday, we enter the Hoh Rainforest. Our hike there is hushed and reverent among fir, cedar, and western hemlock rising more than 200 feet into the sky. Moss drapes itself around tree limbs, and maples stand out against the evergreens with leaves of yellow and orange. Though nature is less dramatic here than at the Pacific, we pass a cedar that has fallen and blocked the path. Workers saw parts of it into manageable pieces so we can get by, but we are sobered at the thought that at any time, a tree could fall. The trunk will be left to rest here, where it will shelter new seedlings for new trees.

At the bottom of the collonade of trees, still visible is the tree that, once upon a time, they grew upon as seedlings.

Sunday, we head to Neah Bay and the trail to Cape Flattery. We watch as water smashes against rock, polishing it and carving new patterns and holes. Yet sea lions and birds play on and in the water as though it was a peaceful pool.

We all live in life’s waters that sometimes batter us and take us to places we don’t want to go. We get up and do it all again, day after day, and before we know it, fifteen years have passed. Fifteen years since the day that nature’s forces battered me, too, separating me from my daughter, taking her from my arms before I’d even had a chance to get to know her. Fifteen years later, my heart still breaks, and yet I am frolicking, too. In the presence of nature raw and moody, I am alive. I am still here. I am seeing the great beauty of this world.

We humans have a capacity for resilience. No matter how mighty and intimidating and anguish-provoking nature can be, we who survive are stronger than that. I write about the death of a child today not for pity or even comfort, but to stand in strength. She gave me that. Nature gave me that.

On October 14th every year, I feel the sadness, yes, and all the grief all over again. Yet the Makah survive and flourish despite the white man’s intervention in their lives. Nature knocks down an ancient tree, but new trees form, perhaps in a beautiful collonade. And the course of my own life changed for the better because I had a daughter to love and to be with me, even though our time together wasn’t nearly long enough for me. We can withstand winds and rain and pain, more than we know. We are stronger than that.

Cape Flattery, the most northwest point of Washington State.

Book Of The Week: The Knitting Circle

June 26, 2012 by admin

I mentioned recently that I’m not great at reading instructions. I’m also not great at reading book blurbs, those nice descriptions on the back of the cover that are supposed to suck you in and make you want to read a book. Someone recommended The Knitting Circle to me, so I downloaded it. Without. Reading. What. It’s. About.

By the time I read the Prologue, I was having an uh-uh moment.

You know how TV shows have the little warning at the beginning about whether there are sex, drug, or violence references? Hubby says they need warnings for when something awful happens to a dog or a child. I stopped watching Mad Men after an episode where one of the characters abandoned his dog so he could drink. House M.D. lost me for a while when a child died. Shoot, when we saw War Horse on Broadway, I was a sobbing mess at intermission, and those horses weren’t even real — they had people underneath them, for God’s sakes.

So you can imagine my frame of mind when I learn that in The Knitting Circle, our heroine, Mary, is reeling from the sudden and unexpected death of her daughter.

Mary joins a knitting circle at the suggestion of her mother, with whom she has had a distant, difficult relationship. At first she feels safe among these women who know nothing of her story. Of course, as she gets to know them…

Did you ever hear the Buddhist story about the woman whose baby had died? She went to the Buddha and begged him to bring her child back to life. The Buddha tells her he will do it under one condition: she must find a home where death and loss have not paid a visit. Of course, as she travels everywhere, she hears one story after another about the losses of others.

The Knitting Circle is like that. As Mary ventures back into the world and into new friendships, knitting all the while because knitting brings a sense of peace when nothing else does, she understands that she is not alone.

Author Ann Hood, whose own daughter died similarly to Stella, Mary’s child, brings a depth of understanding to a parent’s grief that only those who have been through it understand. Sometimes strangers provide the greatest kindness and compassion when friends and family don’t know what to say. Mary must learn to take the wound and to knit it into something beautiful.

Reading the story, I found myself angry and upset. Mary is falling apart, unable to function in those deep, early months of grief. I wanted her to get up. I wanted her to triumph. I wanted her to hold it together.

I wanted her to because I had to, because when it happened to me, I had no choice. My babies, two of them, died in utero in 1997, and the pain of those losses has never fully healed. I don’t hurt like I used to, but there are still days when it hits me, especially Mother’s Day and October 14, my daughter’s birthday.

It dawned on me that I wasn’t angry at Mary at all — I was angry that I didn’t get to grieve the way I needed to. I wanted to be the one to fall apart, and I didn’t get to be that person. As Mary’s marriage lurches and struggles through the agony, I remembered how my own marriage came to a loving but painful end when our different grieving styles exposed other incompatibilities.

Like Hood, I wrote about my pain, but in a different way. When a Grandchild Dies: What to Do, What to Say, How to Cope, came out of my experiences as a bereaved mother, when I discovered that I had books and support groups to turn to, while my mother did not. Writing that book changed my life in ways I couldn’t begin to imagine. Like Hood, I have emerged from my grief transformed, even though the scab remains.

Hood knits a beautiful story of loss and healing. It is authentic and true, down to the core. It is breathtakingly sad, but not hopeless. Life does, indeed, go on.

Mother’s Day and the Crisis Hotline

May 7, 2011 by admin

Shifts on the Crisis Hotline tended to follow a pattern. The callers were a mix, from those who wanted basic information about food, clothing, or shelter, to those who needed to hold on to life until the suicidal urge had passed. Sometimes the callers were “regulars,” who called daily, often several times a day, just wanting to hear a voice at the other end of a phone. There were even the occasional sex callers, hoping for a sexual release from hearing the sound of a woman’s voice. I could depend on this formula, shift after shift.

Then there was Mother’s Day 1994.

I was unprepared for the onslaught of calls that came in. “My mother died and I miss her.” “My family has ignored me on Mother’s Day.” “I’m angry with my mother.” “I never got to be a mother.” “I hate being a mother.” There would be no easy calls on this day, and certainly no comic relief. Each call was a cry of pain, and it took all of my training to maintain calm in the face of the emotions that slammed against me through the telephone. When I left, I shook all the way home, blindsided. Mother’s Day had touched people at their deepest primal core.

As I look back now, I can see that my compassion was distant and detached. Oh, I helped as best I could, and callers seemed to feel better after we chatted. I knew, after all, that when we are in pain we need most to be heard, and that I could provide. What I did not have was my own experience of Mother’s Day. My relationship with my mother was fine. I wasn’t a mother yet but assumed I would be, and that my family would be a happy one. I was full of the optimism of youth and the arrogance to think that making healthy choices would immunize me from suffering.

I am wiser now.

In 1997, I became pregnant–twice–only to lose both babies. First, a miscarriage. Nine months later, a stillbirth. After that, the silence of infertility. On each succeeding Mother’s Day after that, I would wake to feel the phantoms of my children, missing like amputated limbs, and the haunted heart that sought the heavens in vain for any sign of them. I have a box that holds the pitiful memories of my daughter, Rebekah Diane, Reba for short. She lived inside of me for 28 weeks, 28 precious weeks, before a tumor crushed her heart and mine. In it I have the scraps of broken dreams: condolence cards, a piece of fabric for the curtains in her room, a Noah’s Ark needlepoint, and, most precious of all, her footprints.

I learned, then, that some wounds do not heal, and in inconsolable grief, we can only put one foot in front of the other and find ways not to understand or even accept, but to integrate the loss into our lives and to honor those who have died. Over the years, I and my current husband have made donations in her name, to the March of Dimes, in particular, and Texas Children’s Hospital, where they now do the fetal surgery that might have saved her life back then. I wrote a book for bereaved grandparents, and have been touched by the many letters of thanks I have received from people, many of whom passed the book through their entire family. None of this takes the pain away, but it allows me to decorate her life and create a legacy for her, which is all I can do.

Mother’s Day, 1998, I stepped outside into the quiet, warm air of a Houston morning to find something littered all over the porch. Investigating further, I realized that a plant had bloomed–a plant that had been given to us when Reba died, a plant that had never bloomed before and would never bloom again. The blossoms, pink and white in the shape of hearts, had gently fallen from the plant and covered the porch. I choose to believe that Reba had found a way to say hello and to tell me that I would be okay.

Life has a funny way of coming back around. While some wounds never heal, they can transform us in a way that we can receive new and surprising blessings. While I never became a mother, I did get the privilege of becoming a stepmother to twins. I met them in their senior year in high school, a chaotic time for a woman with no parenting experience! I gathered around me a group of friends, parents of children in that age range, to get their advice and counsel. Most of the time I just made it up as I went along, assured by my wise friends that they did the same thing. I have since weathered the worries, the sleepless nights, the frustration at my own limitations and flaws, and the sometimes-difficult situations that life presents when young people are trying to find their way in the world. It has not been easy, but it has been blessed. Funny thing is, if Reba would have lived, I’m not sure I would be where I am now, which is exactly where I need to be. To my husband, Henry, and to Joe and Sarah, may I say this on Mother’s Day: Thank you for letting me into your lives and for letting me love you. Your lives are precious and miraculous; this much I learned when I had to give my biological child back to God.

If I were back on that hotline again today, I would come from a deeper place in my heart, the place that says, yes, I understand. Often Mother’s Day is filled with a mix of joy and pain, or even just pain. Cry on my shoulder, and I’ll give you a hug over the phone, and together, we will walk into the future, where we can grieve, recover, and hopefully, find new joy.