One Stitch at a Time

Mending is much on my mind these days.  My students have returned, some to catch breakthrough cases of COVID, or to dislocate shoulders riding their bikes in the wrong places, or to skimp on sleep — the usual run of events in these abnormal times.  No sooner did they buy their books than they found themselves in quarantine, or operating rooms, or zoning out in class.  Mend-able crises.

Closer to home, my husband continues to make steady progress with his crutch and determination (and a very good physical therapist!).  We huddle behind masks, defer events, choose the least exposed option for just about everything.

We have the luxury of choice.

One of my sweaters has become a symbol of the unraveling of the world outside my particular bubble.  Years ago, I “borrowed” it from my husband, and never seemed to find the occasion to return it. :))  It’s a droopy, soft grey cashmere, almost big enough on me to be a nightgown.  I love its soft, capacious, enveloping, comfortable self.  I wear it every morning as I head to my early writing.  It’s a bit like an invisibility cloak — it allows me to disappear into deep thought with no concern for appearance.  This is very freeing. For a writer, as I suppose for any mystic, it is essential.

Time and moths have not been kind to this sweater.  A few years ago, holes began to appear.  For a while, I was able to ignore them.  But they only got bigger, and more plentiful.  I tried a mild form of denial.  But soon, there was the unavoidable problem of “appearances,” to say nothing of the integrity of the garment.

How often in the past several years has my social/political/moral comfort zone been similarly invaded?  Subjected to invisible forces that disrupt all of my efforts to maintain my own sense of security, order, and world?

Denial is usually the first stage of coping with trauma and loss.  Hard as it is to admit it, I recognize my tendency to a coping strategy that entails a kind of mild detachment, when I fear being overwhelmed by world events.  The plight of children in under-resourced city schools, the cost of rentals that is driving working class people and many worthy social services from the neighborhoods where they have served, and lived for generations.  The refugees from (count them) conflicts the world over.  The toxic effects of racism and unequal opportunity for so many in our society.

When our lives are disrupted — as they have been in ways large and small in the past two years (and for many, much longer) — it is hard to maintain our moral compass.  The usual support structures and rituals and patterns and friends may no longer be there to lend us succor and keep us on track.  Holes and tears and ruptures can make us fear that the entire narrative of our lives is disintegrating.  And for many in the world today, it is.

How are we to meet disruption and discontinuity equipped with tools that can mend if even a little bit, in small ways, the rending in our own lives and around us?

Three concepts come to mind:

1. Connective threads
2. Small stitches
3. A sense of play

Ruptures can never heal, any more than a wound can, if the torn tissue remains unbound, disconnected.  Left in a state of dislocation, damaged flesh, the human spirit, and yes, garments, die.  Where can I reach out, what gap cross, in order to stitch up a hole in the world?

Small is beautiful.  In fact, small is the only way.  One conversation, one day, one gesture, on action.  One breath.  One stroke of a pen, one stamp on a condolence letter, one trip to CVS or one batch of soup.  One hand reaching for another hand.

Nothing torn can ever be patched back to its original state.  If you are a person of faith, as I am, you will come to understand that the suffering of rupture is asking something more of you than what life offered in the comfortable times.  It has been my experience that ONLY when approached with a sense of verve, enthusiasm, and possibility can our small natures expand as they must to mend an injury.

I still wear my sweater every day and I’m sure it will show more holes as time goes by.  Now, however, mended with leftover threads from my knitting stash, it is not just a comfy morning friend.  It is a goad.  Remember, it says, there will always be work to do.

Namaste