What's Really Hard…or…Why I Never Cry, Anymore.

For months, I thought the answer to this question was that I was deep in denial.  Talking about Mom, her opinions, her belongings, in the present tense, as if she were (and she sort of is) right here with me.  But now that time has passed I'm beginning to believe my shortage of tears is a sort of tribute to who my mom was to me, to other members of the family, and who I am trying to become, as I adopt the mantle of the matriarch of a family traditionally dominated by singular, strong, fair-minded women not prone to the whims of fashion, time, or circumstance.  My mother, her mother, and her mother before here were all only children, reared in upstanding Oregon homes.  College educated, craftswomen and homemakers, learned but never beyond their station in life.  The simplicity of austere, old-fashioned conservatism.  

Coupled with this strong will and ordered mind was the discretion honored by many folks my parents' age and older, plus my mom's own inclination to a very private personal life.  It wasn't until I was in my teens, (or perhaps older) that I learned that my own mother's parents were divorced when she was a young girl.  How it escaped me, as I grew up, that she and her mother were alone, together for most of her formative years and beyond is a puzzle to those of us raising children in this day and age, sharing as many secrets and life experiences as we see fit.  In a similar vein, the fact that I was adopted at birth was a hush-hush thing that even into my teenage years, we alluded to, rather than discuss directly.  Finally, when we did discuss the adoption, my parents shared with me that the lawyer who brokered my adoption assured my parents that birth parents were "tall" so I might fit in with my family.  I don't need to accent the extent to which that spirit has shifted today.  

And so, my experience of my mother is one of a woman who was fiercely loyal, proud, loved my brother and I without wavering, and offered a vision of life as an ordered path which a hard-working soul could navigate.  I have absolutely no recollection of my mother crying over the loss of her own mother, but I do remember vividly the weeks and weeks that she and my father and I spent, cleaning out that old Portland house.  It was a job that she embraced.  Certainly with love, and compassion for all of the memories and stories, but never in a maudlin fashion.  Take care of business.  My mother ran our own family with the charge of a highly intelligent, organized, purposeful being.  In her absence, as I read her dictates to my brother and I, as we prepared for her memorial service,  and as we divide our family's estate, the fact that she played her hand (as if it were bridge) perfectly.  Not a stone unturned.

I didnt even cry when Mom was getting ready to die.  It seemed like any minute she was gonna snap out of it and say something like, "what do you think, I'm dying?!"  So, I guess it's no surprise at all, that I never cry anymore.  Except, sometimes, when something sappy that would probably sort of offend Mom shows up, and for a brief respite I can cry quiet little tears, until I'm ready to get back to the project at hand, whatever it is.

"I'm Everything I am…because you loved me." 
-Celine Dion.

What's Terrific? Raren to Go!

My friend, Julie, took me to a reading by her friend, Peggy Shinner, from a recently published book of essays, You Feel So Mortal. Julie figured that I would enjoy the vibe and the content as it related to older and dying parents, loss, and our relationships with our own bodies. At the event itself, there was a lot to like.  Friendly people, beautiful food, not too noisy, and a sunny, terrifically rehabbed Chicago two-flat.  Peggy's reading was alive and vibrant. I was riveted by her stories, of her mother, her father, her self.  When, at the close of our event, my friend raised her hand and asked a question of the author, it was the closest I had been to crying in quite some time.  Sitting through these essays about dying parents, everyday life, the tears didn't come.   Somewhere between the   heavy loss that I'm experiencing and the joy of experiencing an afternoon with one of the most brilliant, vital, funny friends in my little hood, there was a sliver of teary hurt.  But I didn't, (cry), partly because I wasn't about to spend the afternoon talking about what 2014 means to me (except I do like to say 2014 is about paying cash).

So that was terrific.  There is a lot of terrific.  So much terrific, that I feel overwhelmed by it, particularly now that season has shifted to the lightness of Spring.  I went home with Peggy's newly signed book of essays, and I settled in to a dinner of leftovers (alone) and proceeded to read the whole thing by the following morning.  She's that good.  So many pieces resonate, and to my Chicago friends, especially Albany Park and environs, perhaps more so.  But now, as in many quickly read pieces, the detail flutters away,  but one word... Liberating.  Peggy said that losing her mom was liberating.  I'm sure this is true for so many of us, although the why has  to be different for each of us.  How losing my parents has liberated me I'm not really sure. I don't hold with myself the feeling that I'm doing anything for them, nonetheless, as I sat awake in the wee hours, about a week ago, I pondered not doing triathlon this summer, not even doing Ironman Wisconsin this summer, I felt that profound sense of. Liberation.
And the amazing thing about letting go of so much, I get more and more excited about doing things in place of those encumbrances.  Why do Ironman, when I can do ANYTHING!

Aided by today's sun, I took a moment to get a few shots of the Harlequin Afghan (wip).  This afghan represents a convergence of creative endeavors that have been fueling my fire.  It's a vintage pattern, it'll adorn my creative office space, it's portable, the colors are deadly, and it bridges the gap between then and now.  Even in the work that I'm doing, there's a sense of reaching back in time, I go through objects from years ago as I clean and organize my house, and welcome objects from Mom and Dad's estate.  I was rummaging through my old sewing patterns a few weeks ago, wondering what, if anything, of that collection I would be willing to sacrifice  to ebay, in the name of declutter.  Lo and behold, I was reminded that years ago, possibly even my first Ironman (certainly a half), I wore a tri-outfit that I made myself.

And so, the adventure of a new life, but in my case there's a heavy dose of things that have been there all along.  Some of those things hearken back to before my parents were very old, or even ill.  Those things remind me of myself before marriage, before kids, before mortgage, before co-habitation, even.  This little suit I made in my beautiful attic apartment near Holy Names college.  I had a little nook for sewing and I could watch the sun set over the south Bay.  How's that for terrific?  There aren't enough hours in the day to contain my creative urges.  Swimsuits, crochet, knit, food art, car art, redesign my home, jewelry!!!! I'm ready, and Rarin to go…in fact, years and years and years ago I had a terrific friend, full of energy and verve and my nickname was: Raren…Raren to go.

What's really hard? (Not softened).

1. Young people, as in, people with outer displays of optimism and enthusiasm about the here and now, or even the future.  Those guys partying on the plane home from Portland. Kids, especially when they complain about wanting anything.

2. Crowded places.  Anywhere that people are having multiple or loud conversations at once. Includes: restaurants, bars, cocktail parties, my former workplace, public transportation, major thruways driven around Chicagoland, grocery stores, events or happenings of any sort.

3.  Places of aspirations.  Hearing about credentials, jobs, careers, school success stories, Ivy League Anything, money made, money spent, money earned, saved, etc…

4. Rock Star Old People.  He/she is how old?  Did how many amazing things in his/her lifetime? Had how many gazillion grand, great grandchildren?  Etc…

5.  Not being the master of my domain.  I'm indulging, for now, In the joy of setting my own time clock.  I quit my job, quit my swim team, quit my cycling group and even the farm share.  Really thinking about what needs to happen and trying to listen to my own biorhythms.

6. Kids, as in, why are kids so incredibly indulged today? What are we thinking? They seem like monsters of our own creation.

7. Finally, for the first time ever, not having the assurance, that if it gets real bad, I can pack up my little suitcase, throw it all in the car, and go home. Big girl time.

8. Watching the world, swirl and turn and propel forward with or without my engagement.

9. Thinking of all the Sundays I forgot to call home.

10. Experiencing moments of flow and happiness, only to be followed by a feeling of sinking angst as I move further away from the drama of loss and to the truly losing ground of forgetting.

What happened to me…(big changes).

I've been thinking about what happens when someone dies, and the world begins to respond to this news.  I've also been thinking about what this particular loss (of two parents) means to me.  And I've been thinking a lot about not thinking (denial).  And then there's the part that I think, and think.

I see myself as a person who enjoys cherishing every experience.  I make sure to live, feel, breathe and reflect.  So, when I consider what it's like to experience other people's outreach to me after the loss of parent number two, it is with the great energy I give to taking that moment to share their feelings, thoughts, self.  Yeah, this is mumbo-jumbo, touchy-feely, but this is the deal: when I let people know that this thing has happened, and especially when I let them know that it's a big stinkin' deal to me, the mirror goes up.  Without fail, not only is the person trying to grasp what this means to me, they're also thinking about what it means to them (I remember my own loss, what happens when I lose my blank) and so forth.  So that's when I breathe, and listen, hug, and calculate how much we can stop in this moment and be.   Everyone plays their part.  This is the beauty of community.  Not one person's response to me has been the same as another.  All of these responses are simply perfect, because it's a member of my community, a living member, flaws and all, showing up when they are ready to show up.

My life, since January has been an absolute delight.  I say this only because I feel so fully alive and engaged and passionate that I'm grateful for my own company.  As low as I've felt, at times, I've never felt like a dull light dimming.  Early on, I felt the awful fear and terror of waking in the middle of the night to the scary memory that yes, it's true, this is over.  Even then, even amidst the hard stuff, I've been galvanized into action and good action.  I returned to a bitter humiliating winter that brought all of Chicagoland to its knees.  I breathed, drank my coffee, my wine, slept at night, and began the cathartic process of purging my entire home of objects that needed to be moved.  I pursued a level of organization and order and logical living but never to the extent of over-obsessiveness.  I knew that I would be useless in the out-there world, so I worked, day-by-day, at rebuilding the sanctuary of my own home, my own family, and a gathering place for my community.  As winter dragged on, my own home took on the look of my favorite place to be.

I've been saying that purging and organizing serve two purposes.  One, I'm expecting myself to be grown up, and in my family, order is a sign of maturity.  Second, I needed to find a way to move forward in all of our lives.  My parents dying, at an appropriately old age, is difficult because it is a sign that myself, my friends, my offspring, my hobbies, everything is getting old.  Every object adorning my house, all of my clothes, jewelry….when is the time right to say goodbye?  Tough times provide an opportunity to ask those questions.  

All I can add, for now, is the part about thinking and thinking and thinking, and still finding myself in solid denial.  Early on, I would lie in bed and remember conversations Mom and I had in the last few weeks.  I cataloged the food I prepared for her, I remembered her playing Charades on that last Friday before hospitalization.  I retraced days, meetings, and more.  I would lie in bed counting the nights that I tended her, and the nights that I double teamed with my siblings.  I recalculated when I made calls to which nurse and what happened next.  I saved four days of Newspapers, because there were only four days of the Register Guard left, in a pile, that she didn't read.   And then, when she did leave us, it was all very real.  We were there with her at home, we went about all of the work and letting go that seemed appropriate right then.  January kept us busy.

But, still, now that all of the time has passed, I still talk about Mom's likes, dislikes, attitudes in the present.  Her sense of humor, her sense of order.  As I moved steadily toward a place where I would accept and truly let go, I began the process of assuming possession of all sorts of things that would keep her near me.  Starting with this hundred-year old ceramic cat.  The same cat that she took from her own Mother's home, many years ago, in a similar rite of passage.

Thoughts on internalization, denial, time.

What happened to Mom?  I'm still working hard, trying to sort this out.  All through the months of January, February, March, and April, I've been saying that I'm in denial, waiting for the truth to sink in.  But, I guess this is the way it's going to be.  I refuse to internalize the information that someone as constantly present in my life, someone as reliable, responsible, intelligent, strong, willful and independent is now and forever gone.  That she has left us to fend for ourselves in this world is outside the reach of my emotional self to comprehend.  And if I continue to deny it's existence, perhaps I will be able to function as a strong, intelligent person myself.  Perhaps I'll be able to raise my own game, a tiny bit, so that I'm more organized, more on top of it, more mature, more adult, more Motherly.

Because there we were, in late 2013, doing the aging hospital patient dance. Anybody who has gone through this once, twice, or more times, knows what it's about.  Somebody goes to the hospital, and it's a familiar situation.  My mother, three years ago, had the same attending doc in a similar hospital stay.  When the patient goes in, we've been in and out so many times, dealt with the system so many times, it's nearly impossible not to make light. Here I am, taking photos of cars in the parking lot, relieved at the sun and blue sky of "not  Chicago." We're already fast forwarding to discharge and rehab and where next and how high functioning and what caregivers and what's covered by Medicare and private insurance and what am I gonna tell everybody?

This obsessive sock stopped midstream when Mom left. 

Armed with crossword puzzle book, coffee cup and a yarn project, I'm willing to sit the thing out.  Mix in game shows, local newscasts, and we've got a week's stay in the hospital. For Mom, I diligently brought the paper and heck if she didn't sit in that hospital bed and read the whole thing, and do the Jumble for good measure.  It wasn't a perfect reading, and the Debbie Macomber book that she's been working on since June, well, she held it and played at reading…. Let's just say that for a quiet week, Mom and I hung out in the hospital. Not saying a lot, enduring tests and respiratory therapists and family and meetings with docs...we were passing time, working on our respective projects.

And projects, what is it that builds an obsessive?  What makes it so impossible for me to believe that an eighty five year old woman with a history of respiratory illness would die so suddenly?  This greeting card, for one.  Mom, and her childhood friend, who, together, attended grammar school, college, pledged the same sorority, exchanged the Very. Same. Card. since 1963. Every October, both ways, without fail. Including 2013.  Each year the friends would add a note, a date, and send it back and forth, early and late in month. (Mom's birthday came second).  So we had the card nearby when Mom died and we were going through the contents of her desk (including the many holiday correspondences from 2013, yes, she managed to send Christmas cards).

The card is a testament to my Mom's sense of order, humor, intellect, loyalty, good taste, and eternity.  She was a materialist in the very best sense of the word.  She spoke through actions and things, but never placed the value of things beyond their obvious worth (or worthlessness).  Through Mom, I have come to greatly appreciate the beauty of truly simple things, and things embedded with meaning.  If I bring an object into the home, it might as well have significance.  And so, in the material world, I come to terms with Mom's passing.  

This sock is a cruel reminder of me, sitting in a sun-filtered hospital room deciphering a brain-busting cable pattern, while the respiratory therapy guy, who must have been six foot six, kept on coming in and doping Mom up, in an effort to get her lungs open and stop aspirating her food.  Once, Mom looked at me and joked, "will the sock fit me?"  I argued that the sock was for me, not her.  Later, while she was resting, I looked at the thing, and thought, "Maybe I should make these socks for Mom, they'll be light."  But not only did I not get to tell her that, the sock was nowhere near complete and she was gone. 

As the New Year approached, we began thinking and discussing the reality that Mom wasn't responding to therapy in a fashion that would return her to her lifestyle and her home as she wished.  When we, a few days later, found ourselves tending Mom in her own beautiful bed, I sat and gazed at the embroidery that I had fashioned when I was twelve years old.  All these years later, Mom still slept and woke with this embroidery hanging right above her bedside table.  So, as we moved into the stage of hospice, I set up a tray and chair next to her bed, brought my coffee, yarn, crosswords, and sat, tending to her needs, gazing at the Fall scene.  My mother's material world enveloped me for so many years, and continues to do so.  Her decline, at home, was rapid, and she was saved the grace of being known as a Bridge Player, a Bingo Player, a Loyal Friend, and a master of her own domain.  Check.

And Where, in God's name, have you been and What in God's name have you been doing?

Thus evoking some of the tone and word choice of my Mother, who somehow, strangely, shockingly, peacefully and completely, died about three months ago.  Somewhere smack in the middle of my absence from blogging (I miss you, I do, I do) the world has changed (doesn't it all the time?), but my little world has turned itself inside out, rolled itself around a few times and then spit me out, right back where I started.  A friend said to me, somewhere along the way, that she imagined I would gather a tremendous amount of learning, creativity, thought power and the world would probably be witness to my discoveries vis-a-vis the blog and other outlets.  Sure, I thought, but I'm wondering, still, what that might look like and when the urge might take hold.

Blogging seems to be a commitment that I seem to fall just shy of these days, so I'm going to chunk it down. Let's start with a commitment and an outline. Maybe it'll look a little like this, over the next period of days/weeks:
1.What was I doing in. say. November. December. (What was it about. Then?)
2. What happened to Mom? (Where'd you go? Why?)
3. What happened to Me? (in other words…Big Changes).
4. What's really hard? (Knot in my stomach)
5. What's really terrific? (where do I feel unencumbered?)
6. What makes me hurt a whole lot? (Why do I never cry anymore?)
7. What is this "Unencumbered" business, and where is this *brand* going…or…do we put it to bed, finally? (new avenues, avenues, avenues!)

-Seven Days of Blog Posts. Seven days of writing. Go figure.

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What was it about. Then?

 What was I doing in November and December? Barely hanging on.  I was exhausted at work, overcoming a bout of shingles, the weather was heading to a very bad place, and it was all I could do to enjoy sleep and some exercise.

I managed to craft a few nice things:

A gift for a Sixtieth Birthday

 And had some R&R in away towns...

Lazy Jane's, Madison

But now that I think about it, I kept on repeating the phrase, "If one more thing happens, I'll implode."  You know the place.  The place where your ears are ringing and you're hardly sleeping but you're not technically ill, insane, or even non-functioning.  So now that we're thinking in this fashion, we were at a steady clip in the fast lane and all we needed was a little water to hydroplane on and it would be over for me. For us (as in, the family), and certainly, for any pretense left of feeling Unencumbered.  Somewhere along the way, my spouse and I looked at each other and realized that it would be great to visit Oregon for a week following the major holiday celebrations.  We booked tickets, didn't give it a second thought, and started looking forward to a week on the Oregon Coast that would most likely deliver the quiet, rejuvenative energy we've come to expect from a visit home.

Night Swim. Nothing better. Outdoors.

Why Do We Do the Things that We Do?

 This afternoon I took pause to capture images of the active yarn projects spread around my home.  I skipped over the projects that have sat dormant for four or more months.  Inventory?  About nine open accounts.  Wow.  And what do I really have to show for it?  Sometimes, I've got to wonder.  After all, I've repeatedly said that there's no way to make money off this stuff, it's not as if I'm converting my passion into, say, a yarn-work teaching store or even a design house.  It's a sort of applied art meets walking self expression art installment meets a vision of retro-leisure-time-activity.  Who knows, maybe it's just giving expression to modern day angst in a fashion that is quiet and portable and socially acceptable.  And really, why justify it with a cause, a purpose? 

Why so many?  Why not so many!

I'm quite satisfied with the variety, style, craft, and portability of the work at hand.  A benefit of working different projects simultaneously is that any project might fit the moment.  Need some mindless work for sitting at a swim meet?  How about a newly generated concept, full of life and potential?  What about a piece that has failed in it's initial efforts and needs some re-working and careful thought?  And of course, what about the statement piece, one which is always a conversation starter, a gem, piece of my mind, quite literally, out there for all to see? 

Forever Projects Work Wonders on our Sense of Time.

This afghan is one of my favorites.  It's called the Harlequin, from an old Afghan Catalog that I've been carrying around for years, Modern and Traditional Afghans to knit or crochet.

The Harlequin

From Mom's collection of course.

I'm thrilled with my color choice.  The sixties pattern calls for primary colors on a white background.  My taste, and to fit my front porch/office area is the chartreuse/coral/black/grey.  The black background seemed like a great idea, but it's turning into a bit of a nightmare.  I've got about forty more black diamonds to crochet and assemble, and the yarn is difficult to see, especially when working in challenging light.  I'm probably about twenty-five percent finished, so, like many pieces, I may never finish.

Don't give it away.  It's purpose is fulfillment. 

Mobius Cowl

I'm happy to make another Mobius Cowl.  I made this wrap/shawl/warmer for another friend at a time of illness and recovery.  This deep purple cowl is going to someone nearby who has had a difficult season.  I am not too fond of making objects as gifts.  A big piece of why I work yarn crafts is that it's a way to make things without always making things for other people (kids/spouse/etc), and as soon as one fills their to-do list with gift items, well, then, poof(!), there goes the huge part of crafting that is self care and meditative.  That said, I'm ocasionally inspired to make a gift, and this wrap is so clever, in that you never have to lift the hook (it wraps on top and bottom as you crochet), there something delightfully giving about the essence of how the cowl works up.

The message: Oh Well. 

Oh Well! Hat.

Heavy on concept,  the Oh Well! hat is one of my favorites.  It's a double knit, so as I work the main color, the contrasting color can spell a design or word out.  "Oh Well." is my first and very favorite bumper-sticker of all.  That said, it's not my favorite piece of yarn work, and I'm not in love with how it's working up (too clunky, too loose with the two color scheme).  It's also a scrap yarn, so although lovely color and yarn, possibly not the best delivery of my message.  Often times, the concept itself is much more inspiring that whatever it is I actually come up with.  So many ideas, and so  little actual time, of course, to bring ideas to light.  I'm completely captivated with yarn-bombing of all sorts, but truthfully, I can't fathom being able to cover such vast spaces with my work, so I need to settle for wear-able yarn art.

Sometimes, an idea fails. Move On.

Crochet or get out of the way. Move on.

I'm kind of moving away from my obsession with granny squares turned into garments.  So this really delicious yarn (baby cashmere merino silk), that I've already used for fingerless mittens and hat is sort of taking up space in my project mind.  I want to turn it into a skirt, but it's just taking too long, and I'm not feeling it.  Let's face it, anyone who's ever made a lot of stuff knows the truth.  Some projects just don't work.  This might get pieced together one day, but it's hard to
feel it, sitting in a purse, day in and day out.  In some ways, life is a lot like this.  Sometimes, something seems like a good idea, but once the inspiration is gone, move on.

 Meditation, Repetition, Prediction.

Needlepoint bench cover. Just like Grandma's.

 And then, there's a giant needlepoint bench cover that I found, half-worked, in a thrift store last summer. Something tugged at my heart when I saw it, and I was back in my Grandmother's house, learning to needlepoint, and admiring her cane wood chairs each carefully covered with a maroon-backed floral print.  Needlepoint is tedious, a tremendous eye strain, and not very creative at all.  It is, strictly, pattern piece work.  That said, there's a terrific meditative rhythym to this work, and there are mornings when there's nothing that I'd like to do more than sit in bed with coffee in hand, working this piece which, surely, will take a lifetime.  Then I can dream on to the discovery of what and where I might find the proper bench to place this work upon.   Originally, I imagined some sort of giant coat backed with this piece, but now I've come to realize that this sort of needlework will probably never make it outside of the house....well, as far as I can think....

Foresee the inevitable.  Weather will change.
Cozy in the American Tourister suitcase, a pair of mittens, worked up with yarn that will match the "Oh Well" hat.  I originally conspired to put little ducky on the back side, but the pattern I was using was completely wrong and my tension was miserable.  So it was, just a matter of days or weeks ago that I unravelled last winter's work and started over, perhaps to do a simple striped glove or the like.  For the time, I need to let go of my beloved stencil-patterns for knitting.  Now that it's actually snowing, I sort of wish there was a way that I could have foreseen the cold.   I'm enough of a fair weather athlete to absolutely wait until the weather shifts before I perform any seasonal projects.  Poor planning? Perhaps, but then again, if my intention is to create a feeling of being unencumbered within myself, then I guess I'm on the right track.

Wish List: Always Creating. And, speaking of scraps, I've got in my head that I'd like to build a mod-style dress out of cast-off yarn. Crochet is the craft, and I'm thinking a fairly bulky design on vertical stripes.  Lo and behold, the scraps that I was considering, probably wouldn't be enough for a skirt, let alone a dress, so it's back to the drawing board on that one.

And so yes, why do any of this? Why do what I do? Why do what any of us does?  It's in this world, a world endowed with leisure time and technology and mass production and the mad rush to achieve, earn, survive, that we wish and wonder why.  I argue that we do this because we must.  We must do something to create a sense of ritual, peace, art, joy, connection, belonging.  Some of it turns around and makes the world a better place, some of it sits in our own cocoon and withers, but it's what we must do.  We must try to do something, try to create something, after all it's the hope and the wish that we're building something beautiful, meaningful, worthy of this life and more.