The Winter Which Comes Tomorrow

So many days after Sandy, the heavy yellow and red dump trucks come following their clawed and scooping leaders along our road. They are lifting bucketloads of dirt and leaves from the side of the road, the woods’ side, to ensure a clean and safer passage for this road’s travelers come winter, the winter which comes tomorrow.

They say it’s supposed to snow, the first of the season. But my friend on the phone told me she heard it’s only rain that will come. It has felt like winter for days. Autumn has been cold enough, and last night letting Vinny out to relieve herself, my flashlight made the stiffening green leaves of the grass sparkle. It was as if the night sky had tripped and accidentally spilled a blanket of tiny stars on the lawn. Walking carefully in the dark, with only my one-beamed view, the glittering earth turned me upside down. Instead of ground, I had a gray-green, textured and cushiony, crunchy and dressed-up, shimmering sky to walk on.

Today the windows are irregularly painted with transparent drops of water, concentrated into rhythmic shapes in horizontal stories along the glass. They appear as graphs of cold watery data, a hieroglyphic tale of war and peace, or, seen from a different perspective, the ragged condensation along the bottom edge resembles the tops of evergreen trees, without the ever or the green. This dewy paint will fade soon enough, if given a sun’s chance, and these impermanent rhythms will change, the tales will die, the tree tops will be gone forever. There will be new ones tomorrow, more lasting perhaps, depending on the cold, on the winter which comes tomorrow, but we will not read them any more carefully.

Dreaming

Close your eyes.

Do not sleep.

Watch as your blood and your day

Recede

It is only you here...

You will sleep soon enough,

Dream your bloodless dreams

While you can.

It’s not true that we dream too much

There is...

Between darknesses,

Between light strikes,

The fragrance: burnt coffee and

Moldy books, damp alleys and old puddles

A fine, thin scent of bitter flowers

Only lately past their pink and yellow prime.

It is all familiar, yet takes your breath away.

Keep watching

Always something...

It’s warm in this fog-filled hallway,

Hiding mirrors and self-portraits

From yourself,

The warmth is your heart

Ever-loving.

Blindspot

I can’t see the trees for the forest.

Blind and needy, I peel back the bark with rough movements

And trembling hands, exposing crawling and desperate

Insects and the red raw life at the core of my sightlessness.

My self so close to the tree - at first I am overwhelmed by the sweet scent

Smashing my face inside.

Having invaded so carelessly, and with such rush, soon

I am dizzy, repulsed -

Nauseated by the suddenness of the present.

For Lack of a Better Future

The other night, a moment after darkness fought valiantly -

And had its brief but ever patient victory -

It asked me to look.

Against heavy lids I opened my cowering eyes ever so slowly

And saw for a fraction what I had long suspected would be there.

Except - within the pitch of dark, closer to me and to my left -

I saw the edge of what could be a light picture frame.

Or perhaps a piece of furniture left from some old tenant of that moment.

Whatever - it is mine now.

Today, naturally, I focus on that fragment of a light frame,

Crafting an identity for its presence in my view of a future.

Is it the mess in my office?

My past insisting on following me, wherever I go.

The last box in which I keep vestiges of who I thought I might be.

Something asking something from me,

And tripping me up, possibly, on my way to complete the darkness.

The bleakness struck me with an unexpected horror.

The future has been an illusion, and will be.

We love to prop it up with spectacular displays

Of happy-making billboards and smiley faces.

It’s how we survive.

It’s our food and shelter, that future.

It’s been a fake-out to me.

A super-nothing.

A magician’s rabbit.

Or... are secrets yet to be found there?

Was it the edge of the rabbit’s cage that broke the darkness?

After all, where is my self when I look?

Am I the rabbit that waits?

Now I see

I am also the magician, dressed in black.

U.S. Olympics Committee Deeply Offends Millions of Knitters - Why?

The Olympics are not what they used to be.  Many of us grew up watching the Olympics with our hearts in our throats, with still fresh, elementary school images of ancient Greek athletes coming together to outwit and outrun their competitors in grand matches of skill and bravery.  The spirit of the Olympic Games was one we all carried within us through long summers and longer winters, because as children everything was possible and nothing was unreachable.  We understood the hardships, the training, the sacrifices these athletes endured in order to compete at the top of the world against the best of the best.  And in each child’s heart, that heart that does not die within us, no matter how old, we felt the struggle, the desire and the drive to push the limits of human endurance and personal potential as far as they might go.  What child does not feel that potential waiting for its time to be tested?

We have never forgotten that the Games were founded as a great experiment of peace between nations.  How beautiful, how pure, how civilized and equitable, this experiment!  It instructed us, as few examples in our history have, that there are alternatives to war.  These were lifetime lessons that would seem impossible to sully.

The tradition of knitters coming together to share and refine their craft is also very old.  The indelible images in our hearts have not been etched by elementary school textbooks, but by the legacy of generations of grandmothers and great-grandmothers; of ancestors in old and new countries hand stitching ageless heirlooms of craftsmanship, many with millions of tiny stitches created with knitting “pins”.  The image of the knitter or crocheter is a part of the fabric of our lives; not just for knitters themselves, but as one of the world’s cultural icons - as taken for granted in the United States as a bible in church, a child’s baseball, an apple pie in the kitchen - an afghan for your bed, a thick sweater in winter, a pair of mittens on a fall day.

The fact is, because of their inviolable place in our hearts and minds, the spirit of the Olympic Games and of knitting can never be owned by any one of us.  They will always belong to all of us.  This is something that trademarks and media, or consumerism and profit cannot change.  The fact is, knitting will last as long as humankind exists.  I worry about the Olympic Games and their longevity.  Unfortunately, the need for money becomes the only lasting legacy of so many things in our world.  Such is life.

When the United States Olympic Committee wrote that a very large group of organized knitters - celebrating what is essentially the spirit of the Olympics within each of us - were possibly denigrating the athletes and the Games by calling their own consumer-less “games” Ravelympics, the USOC was not so much insulting knitters, but precipitating a clash of very old and very preciously-guarded comforts of the human heart.

The idea of knitters expressing their outrage in such a vociferous mass would seem comical to many, precisely because we all think we “know” who knitters are - the way we all think we “know” what the Olympics are.  Knitters are, and have always been, individuals, of all sizes, ethnicities, genders, race, color, age - very young to very old - and do not have much more in common than their love of crafting with pointy sticks.  If the Olympics draw these diverse people together to celebrate their love of their craft, in honor of the spirit of the Games - to essentially knit while watching - we are witnessing a coming together of two peaceful legacies that reside in the human heart.

“Owning” the Olympics changes the Olympics.  We all understand that, no matter how sadly distasteful it might be.  A well-known blogger and knitter wrote that the angry knitters’ “feelings are hurt”, by the insulting language of the USOC.  I think it is much more than that.  It is simply that knitters take their craft as seriously as its tradition is precious.  Many of us are used to feeling that precious private ownership of the Olympics, too.  The insult to knitters, with words about “denigrating” the Olympic spirit, expressed by a faceless committee invested in the protection of a trademark, seemed to jolt a still innocent, childlike part of these knitters‘ hearts.  I think instead of “feelings being hurt”, we could say our spirits took a shock.  It happens.  It might just mean it is time to stop believing in another Santa Claus, in the scheme of things.  But, like knitting and Santa Claus, there is always something deep in our hearts that we love deeply about the Olympics.

And now, let’s try to catch some of the highlights of the Olympics, which will be based on what sponsors and NBC decide we should see - if we haven’t purchased enough cable.  Now, it’s back to your regular program.  Nothing more to see here.

Rhythm and SSKs

I know the difference between a slip slip knit and a knit two together.

I can do them over and over again - and have.

I have taken the rhythm for granted, I think - such a shame.

I move on past those stitch markers with only a slight acknowledgement,

As if they chose to be there, insisted upon it, and I am only

Tolerating their presence!  But, I like the smooth movement when I ignore them.

Let them be there.

Most of them are a lime, almost florescent green color, and there is one purple one -

The only one I thank openly, with no shame - after all, I’m not counting!

Why should I, when the purple one is there?  And, my red clicking row counter?

It could be that I only use it for the sound,

And the better than bursting bubble wrap satisfaction it gives.

But, I’m lying.  I rely on that row counter.  I know I can survive without it.

I can survive without those stitch markers, perhaps even the purple one, too.

But, survival is no fun, and pretty stressful without tricks.

It’s marking time that’s fun.  It’s the bass to my rock and roll, the tick of the clock,

The beep of the microwave and the washing machine.  Remember we didn’t have beeps when
We were kids?  Time didn’t mean as much, so we didn’t need them.  Rhythm was like breathing.

But, now, marking time, my own ticking clock, it’s a way of telling myself that I am moving forward, Getting something done.  And, these days, it is also a way to remind me that if I ignore the rhythm,

If I take it for granted, like a damn kid, it will not exist without my attention.

Where is my attention these days?

I know the difference between a yarn over and a yarn over backwards, now.

With one you start from the front and go over.  With the other you start from the back and come over.  They’re beautiful in their own elegant way, these metaphors in knitting.  Simple, and profound, too.

We often enough need to stop and go back, or need to go back in order to move forward.

What worries me is what I ignore all too often these days.  Like ignoring steps in a dance.

As if somehow I don’t need to know the difference.

But, I do.

Knowing the difference reminds me that I am alive in a living world,

Even if my sense of rhythm, and time, are slow, and waning.

'This too shall pass', she said, 'so be present.'

Being present helps me to remember what I love, what we all love, which is the rhythm of living.

So what if, now, it requires my attention?  Should I be annoyed by the need for rhythm?

The need to pay attention?  The need to mark my time, or my presence here?

What happens if I stop?  Nothing.

Reading Aloud

"The spring without a leaf to toss, bare and bright like a virgin fierce in her chastity, scornful in her purity, was laid out on fields wide-eyed and watchful and entirely careless of what was done or thought by the beholders...

As summer neared, as the evenings lengthened, there came to the wakeful, the hopeful, walking the beach, stirring the pool, imaginations of the strangest kind - of flesh turned to atoms which drove before the wind, of stars flashing in their hearts, of cliff, sea, cloud, and sky brought purposely together to assemble outwardly the scattered parts of the vision within. In those mirrors, the minds of men, in those pools of uneasy water, in which clouds for ever turn and shadows form, dreams persisted, and it was impossible to resist the strange intimation which every gull, flower, tree, man and woman, and the white earth itself seemed to declare (but if questioned at once to withdraw) that good triumphs, happiness prevails, order rules; or to resist the extraordinary stimulus to range hither and thither in search of some absolute good, some crystal of intensity, remote from the known pleasures and familiar virtues, something alien to the processes of domestic life, single, hard, bright, like a diamond in the sand, which would render the possessor secure. Moreover, softened and acquiescent, the spring with her bees humming and gnats dancing threw her cloak about her, veiled her eyes, averted her head, and among passing shadows and flights of small rain seemed to have taken upon her a knowledge of the sorrows of mankind." 

excerpt from Time Passes, To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf 1927

Promise

When I grow old, and my past begins to fade,
Will you remind me of how memories are made?
Remind me of how I had always insisted the future is clear and full of hope -
How it’s contained within each tiny moment of the present - and how,
In every wrinkle and sudden movement, my life and my self
Are created, again and again, without end.

When my ideas grow dim and my thoughts get quiet,
Show me the sky and tell me my name and how lucky I’ve been
All my life.  Tell me about how well I’ve known love - and how it was
The trees that taught me the most.  Promise they will teach me again.
Take my hand in yours, and draw pictures for me on the lines that are there -
And trace how my life has joined yours.

When I get sad, remind me of you - how your laughter is all
That is essential for this life.  Tell me how you wake, and how you drag out of bed,
And how your bones will ache - and then, how the smell of brewing coffee
Renews the morning spirit of millions just like us.
Remind me that sad is just a tired survivor, who is only passing through - and,
Because of this, remind me to be kind and patient with my guests.

When I am no longer able to speak, remind me with a smile
That all will be fine.  Don’t linger with worry or fearful regrets -
Remind me of how I worship the moment.  Read me some poems,
Or write me a letter with all of your thoughts, your dreams and your hopes.
Read the words slowly and savor the sound of your voice, in order to remind me
That love is contained in all of the words of the world.

(Thanks, Vicki, for the photo.)

Found things

Smithsonian Institution Archives

Somewhere, in a shadowed place,
    You have found the hidden me.

I lean toward you, silently,
    To welcome you to me.
You may not know the place yourself,
    But be aware of this:
I hold my secret arms extended -
    In anticipated bliss.

The Spirit of Compassion

Listening is a practice of compassion.  When I calm my mind, release my need for attention, and center my focus on another, I am choosing the gift of compassion.  Listening is the companion of silence, and we listen most closely when we begin by silencing the mind.  As another begins to speak, our focused silence acts as a beacon.  As the act of listening begins, the speaker begins to relax within the unique sound of her voice, and her voice may become akin to the soothing murmur of nurturing.  As the speaker begins to listen to her own sound, she may experience a feeling of awkward joy; and it is the listener's continuing focus that encourages joy over discomfort. 12/15/08

Witness

On this broad day,

We remember

The falling skies,

The hot horror of death,

And our broken minds

Turned to steel and ash.

As the dust settles

A gray blanket over the heart,

It won't muffle the noise

Threatening

"We will never forget"

All over town.

What if -
I want to forget?

Will I be forgiven

Or even remembered

If I lose the path

To vengeance...

On my way to Peace -

As I work my way to health,

Does my obligation

Have an ending?

Or is it always a beginning?

I am frightened...

But, I am also brave.

And, I am also free.

I cover my hands

With a wrap of Hope

And break more glass

Through some interior wall

To find a sole survivor:

Of no gender or name,

No age or color -

There is only an echo of sound and memory

Still struggling to comprehend

The loneliness of violence and hate.

Can we all be heroes today?

We can shed our shields

Of now-shaken and tarnished pride.

We can re-center our hearts,

And renew our vows

To face forward with our new minds.

Heroes are the many souls

In desperation

Getting up again.

Remember the sunshine - why not?

It did not become our enemy

On that broad blue day.

It, too, was just a witness

To humanity's hurting itself, again.

Don't blame the sun!

I want to be able to thank it over and over

For being present on the day

It should have disappeared.

I would not have wished

For a cloudy day

To blur the edges

Of such stark waste and anguish.

Perhaps clarity was there

For a reason...

Take a new look at the sun...

Remember each day

As it shines - and why.

Thank it for coming back, again.

Didn't it forgive and forget

Our ugliness and pain?

I want to be like the sun.

I want to shine warm and blue

And make a bright day,

And see clearly our pain and redemption,

In order to know what I might forget:

It is the beginning and the end

Of my obligation.

Refugee

It's not as if

I read fortunes

Or understand the nature

Of being True.

Time is falling -

That's not my fault -

No space for big steps,

There's only enough room

For breathing.

Grasping at feathers,

Fathers and mothers,

Experience flies

In the face of Time.

I might turn to prayer

Or words to chant,

And talk to the trees and birds -

There are solutions there.

But they are busier than I,

And God is, too -

My hope is smothered

By an onslaught of sound.

And in my mouth

I hold only unformulated thoughts -

Some garbled mix of hidden wants

The desires of an unformed creature.

The birds seem True.

Nature is wild with Truth.

And I watch as if in the shadow of a cinema,

Holding onto my seat, afraid to miss out

On the telling part.

I move forward, or at least in place -

Stepping as if with new feet

Made of fresh and sticky clay

I will make the forward motions.

I refuse to march to the pace of Time,

And my rhythm shows this fault.

I fall out of step with what might be called

My fellow travelers.

Time's Garden

for Chris

It's OK to cry, my friend,

If you feel like a little boy

And your life appears empty

Of pleasure and comfort.

You are still Alive;

And it still has meaning

Through this dis-ease of

Pain that consumes your attention.

It's OK to feel like an old man, too,

If suddenly aging and dying

Seem to glow dimly in a false mirror at your face,

Taunting you into frustration and nausea.

'Why?' is the question you ask.

'Why am I punished?

I was only doing my best

And I'm sorry if I failed so deeply.

But, it's not fair!

How can it be?

There are worse failures

And I am only human.'

You are only Human,

So don't forget

This Pain is not Evil

Or Good, it just Is.

It is not God

Or an Angel of Darkness

Sent to scare you away

From Love.

It is a thing of Fate, perhaps,

A mystery of living,

A chance to watch your loved one

Love you, maybe.

If only you could see Her!

She is all Beauty now,

More than ever.

And her face is like the Light in a tragic darkness.

Pain is between you

But it's only a symptom

Of Time,

Flexible and strong.

Forgive Time;

It has no clue.

It is oblivious, in its Innocence,

As it does its job.

It moves at its own pace, true,

Crushing us on its way, but then

When it's had enough, it creates

Great sweeping and fragrant gardens

Of Relief.

And Relief will come,

Another symptom of Time.

The exotic pain will suddenly

Become a memory of

Time, having its way with you.

You will Live with your Angel

The one with the Light,

Who hovered gently along with Time,

Together inhaling the fragrance of Relief.

(Thanks, Liz, for the photo.)

I Deeply Regret

I received an email from a dear friend asking for my thoughts on this quote from Henry David Thoreau:

"Make the most of your regrets... To regret deeply is to live afresh."

I think going deep into the feelings we get from our mistaken behavior, actions and inactions, we can find out what matters most to us, what makes us feel successful and good, about ourselves and the world. So, if we regret deeply, we can seize that information as an opportunity to do much better.

I think we often confuse regret with guilt and obsession. They aren't the same things. We can regret our actions without blaming ourselves or others, so there is no need for guilt. And obsession is just another behavior we can regret. I think regrets teach us to live better and more honestly. To dwell only on guilt and obsession about our regrets keeps the deeper lessons hidden beneath a shallow veneer of concern.

The idea is to understand our behavior, to recognize when we have acted against our better judgement or personal moral code, and to learn from it. And learning from it, to move on to "live afresh". Not harboring obsessive thoughts and guilt trips about the regrets, but seeing them as milestones, or using them as stepping stones, in our learning about who we are and who we want to be.

You can start over and try again. (Every moment.) (I read recently, in Pema Chodron's book, When Things Fall Apart: "This very moment is the perfect teacher, and, lucky for us, it's with us wherever we are".)

I always think of dogs, when I think of starting fresh, because Vinny has taught me so much. They don't waste time regretting. I forgive her for everything. And, because she knows this, knows that I love her and will protect her to the best of my ability, she trusts me completely. (She forgives me for everything.) She starts "afresh" every moment.

(Before Vinny taught me the reality of it, I first became aware of this natural gift that dogs have, from some very good books about dogs. The Dog's Mind by Bruce Fogle, Cesar's Way by Cesar Millan, and The Other End of the Leash by Patricia McConnell, are a few that come to mind, among others.)

You always have the opportunity to change the dynamics of your relationship with dogs (as long as they haven't been permanently damaged somehow). If you act as if we are "moving forward", "being present", not dwelling on what she has done that may have displeased you in the past (even the past few minutes), she will respond immediately. So, she reacts to what I do right now, not what I did, or what she did, but what I do, and what I will do next. She's always fascinated by what happens next. She really lives afresh in each new moment.

I can take my regrets and waste their lessons by dwelling in guilt or obsession, or I can learn from them and be grateful for them because they teach me things I need to learn right now.

These Funny Black Holes

Thanks to Cordula Surmann-Schmitt, on Ravelry as Haramis17

Having just finished David Mitchell's latest, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet - with his almost feminine flourishes of precision and skill, and Peter Pan-like genius; where even in the darkest passages he brings humor and an everlasting fun; and where he can't help but share his enjoyment of every word, which works like a perfect puzzle piece to produce a perfect novel - I have just started Per Petterson's I Curse the River of Time, and The Pain Chronicles by Melanie Therstrom, as if to ground myself, fresh from a Disney ride.

Reading in Therstrom's book about ancient treatments for pain - for instance, how the Egyptians drank magic words liquified (edible ink); or how the Babylonians chanted over a poultice of beer, oil and herbs for toothaches created by the demon-worm residing in the jaw - and in Petterson's, about the relationship of a dying Danish mother and her freshly divorced Norwegian son; and reflecting on the fact that there is an ongoing joke in my book group that I enjoy "dark" writing (because I adored and suggested By Night in Chile by Roberto Bolaño, no doubt), I've been pondering perceptions of light vs. dark a great deal lately.

My perception has at its core an awareness of darkness that has been present for me from my very first memories of this lifetime. I have indulged or wallowed in the drama of darkness, but as time progressed I learned the potent lesson: Heartbreak Happens. I came to understand that a heart has a limit to its capacity for breakage, and if I didn't want to end up slobbering in a gutter somewhere, I needed to decide that what was left of my heart should be less like a cheap plastic kid's toy and more like the moldable kind of plastic, like Play-doh or other, where the squeezes and shoves heal over soon enough, even when small chunks come off due to overuse. My heart may be distorted, oddly-shaped, and incomplete, but in this new consistency I may yet avoid that curb by the sewer drain.

As far as embracing darkness vs. light, I am much more prone to embrace them both as one entity, where I don't understand one without the other - fearing too much enlightenment at once, I suppose, or too much hell; I've been at both ends, and, although as initiations they can't be beat, you don't want to do it too often, unless you have a death wish - and I find that beauty almost always contains both at once. Too much light and I'm dizzy from overexposure. Too much dark and I'm blind.

I see a need for both, and can't see the light if there is no contrast. The gray area in between is what defines "reality", but with no extremes to shoot for or avoid, I would be bored. And I'd choose the gutter over boredom any day.

The Liminal Zone

It's where I live, it's my home:

That Time of almost feeling,

Of barely conscious perceptions

And full awareness.

I step over the line

And dance in wakefulness

And act as if committed

To the stability of one side

Or the other,

But I never lose sight

Of my safety zone,

Which is always in transition

And forever changing me.

The Space is filled

With beautiful characters,

And bright and dark,

And I touch all

And they encourage me.

Some taunt me for my lack

And weakness.

But, tip-toeing across those boundaries,

Or stepping lightly and precisely

Like a tightrope walker,

Is what I do best.

To Diana, with love

I picture you on the train

In the mornings.

All around you are bowed heads

And busy fingers

Forecasting their future

In shiny boxes.

I see you immersing yourself

Into your day

And it's as if you are falling

After a leap

Into a spider web

Of vast proportions.

Are you looking for God,

Hiding in a corner

And waiting for a meal?

It's relatively painless,

This moving through

Silken threads,

Some sticky from newness,

Some old and surrendering easily

To your slightest pressure.

If you get trapped

It's a welcomed rest

From the fall,

I can imagine.

Will you find me in there?

You'll find me only

As a shy neighbor

To God, but kinder,

And I will embrace you

Only lightly

With sticky arms,

Even as I know

You are only

Passing through

To your future.

Albatross

I’ve been reading Eye of the Albatross, by Carl Safina, for book group - an amazing, beautifully written book. The birds are spectacular and gentle and brilliant. But, I am devastated by the cruelty, and the disregard our human “civilization” has had, and continues to have, for the lives of these creatures, and our oceans. I find it very difficult to continue reading. His writing is beautiful prose with gorgeous and loving descriptions, full of scientific and deeply researched information.

I think I don’t have the emotional fortitude to continue; but then it occurs to me that integrity is somehow very tied to fortitude, and I wonder if my lack of fortitude is related to some lack of integrity.

(Is fortitude always related to integrity, in any case or context? Is a strong character, for instance, always based on, or composed of, or generated by, a character of integrity? Or, put the other way, is weakness tied to an uncertain lack of integrity?)

I guess I wonder if, by “protecting” my emotional frailty (in any context, really), I am also surrendering my moral obligation to the Earth and her creatures (or to any challenge before me). Can I afford, in terms of my integrity, to NOT know the acute damage we humans continue to perpetuate? So, I fight the tiny itchy feeling of shame for not wanting to read the details, in order to not suffer more than I have to.

I know I would say, if someone were to ask, that we need to survive our lives to the best of our ability, that we each have our limits as far as what we can deal with, or live with, and we have to accept those limitations in order to survive, and not crumble. It’s about an obligation to live a balanced life, emotionally speaking, to make our society a more balanced and safer “place”.

But, if we know that pushing the boundaries of our limitations can also enlighten us, so that we can do more for our world, do we have an obligation to push those boundaries? It’s like being on the edge of awareness, but refusing to take that last leap for fear of failure or the unknown. I am afraid of the emotional pain. (Don't we avoid going through too much mental anguish for fear of losing emotional control? Aren't we afraid of losing our minds, from pain?) Yet, I have already read how one albatross, trying to regurgitate for her hungry chick, couldn’t pull up the last thing inside her because it was a toothbrush she had swallowed somewhere in the ocean. The pain is already there… why do I want to turn away if I already know the horror?

I think about the scientists in the book, and their precious work, and know that I “could be” there with them, if I had the right training and circumstances, a different life lived, obviously; but, I ask myself, would I require a different character? Would my emotional fortitude be nurtured from a whole different level of integrity? I wonder if their integrity is boosted by their courage and strength, or is it the other way around? From this perspective, all I can do, for now, is try to see their individual work as a balancing act of light and dark. And ask myself if I could do the same, on my small level, by informing myself of their work.

The Wasted Vigil

As I watched him discuss his current book, The Forever War, I could see the chaotic reality with which Dexter Filkins lives. The horrific memories of human atrocities were mapped across his face throughout the New York Times reporter's interview with Charlie Rose. His eyes held the dry, fixed expression of a man who has seen too much, and who, now, finds it hard to close them. The shocking, yet understandable, fact that he missed that day-to-day horror and heart-pumping drama was what stood out for me, and I found myself both craving and rejecting his life.

What remains for me is the question of how we live after war. How do we go on? Day after day I might wake up wondering what will become of my life, but I do not wonder about my mortality, or what dangers I might encounter. I can well see that I could become accustomed to the charged awareness, the adrenaline for breakfast. And, landing after on solid ground and with a view of clear skies, with no easily apparent injuries, the forced withdrawal must be almost maddening.

With The Wasted Vigil by Nadeem Aslam, I am experiencing a rather elementary-school version of that horrified, yet transfixed, attachment. It's not often I can say that I miss the characters in a novel; but more than missing the individuals, Casa, David, Lara, Dunia and Marcus, I miss their lives. I became accustomed to Aslam's compassionate yet harsh imagination, and his very precise rendering of the mixed-up realities of war-torn Afghanistan. Each character gracefully tells a history of war, religion, personal relationships, and how one lives day-to-day in the chaos of terror. I am left with both a desire to know more, to continue to have each of these characters teach me about their lives and emotions, and a sense of horror that I could possibly want to experience more of the ugly realities of human cruelty.

Is it both a craving for, and rejection of, a deeper understanding of what makes me human?

Skully on My Mind

 

I will never again try to fit a woman who only wears mens' clothing into a woman's sweater. Skully [Ravelry link], from Debbie Stoller's first Stitch N' Bitch book, has very narrow arms and the sleeves squeeze the upper arms like dark fuzzy sausages. Brown Sheep Lamb's Pride Bulky is like a hot bed. It is the stuff that yarn stores are made of. I like it! It is extremely easy to work with, I can see the stitches, and it feels like an old friend. It reminds me of what knitting has always been about for me: cozy comfort.