Monday, December 7, 2009

Ah, December…

It seems every holiday is balanced with a share of grief.  Perhaps winter celebrations were established to balance our sufferings through these dark months.

This is a study for a larger tapestry I still haven’t made.  The bigger idea is not ready yet, but at the time of the study I made a list of mothers I know who had lost their children.  I just added one more name to that list.

Detail of Life 18 x 8 And yesterday I found this poem mixed in with my cache of knitting patterns:

What the Living Do

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven't called.  This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours though

the open living room windows because the heat's on too high in here, and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I've been thinking:  This is what the living do.  And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush:  This is it.
Parking.  Slamming the car door shut in the cold.  What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up.  We want the spring to come and the winter to pass.  We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss -- we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living.  I remember you.

--Marie Howe

I promise to be more upbeat for the rest of the month…


Life Looms Large said...

I'm sorry for your friend's loss.

I can never decide if all the holidays and festivities at this time of year help make the darkness easier to bear, or add their own franticness and distraction to a time that seems like it naturally draws us inward.

Your tapestry fragment is beautiful.

You definitely don't have to promise to be upbeat for the rest of the month, in life or in your blog.

Take care,

OzWeaver said...

Thank you, Sue. Your words gave me a lot of comfort.

I wish there were something that could comfort the mother of that young man.

journalist said...

beautiful collection.!


I'm so sorry for your friend and your loss. It must be heartwrenching. The poem is beautiful and touched me deeply. You don't have to promise to be upbeat because you can't hide your compassion, allow yourself to feel as you do, it will help you heal.

I love the tapestry it's so beautiful and rich.

OzWeaver said...

Thank you for your comments. Life is rich with blessings and sorrows, and it's good to have compassionate friends!

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