Knitting

 

There was no light on the cloudy Friday afternoon when my neighbor from across the road, Libby, arrived to visit. Yet, as soon as she and I and my dog, Addie, affectionately greeted each other, light joined us as we walked together to the living room. As she slid off her red wool coat, I reached to take her pretty knitted mittens.

 “Libby, you made your mittens, I’d bet,” I commented and smiled as I lightly rubbed a small red rose fastened to the upper edge.

She nodded. “Yes, I did.”

“So, you knit, too,” I said, always happy to meet a fellow knitter.

“Not really. I made these from some discarded sweaters.”

“You cut out the mitten pieces?” I asked, envisioning that the pieces would quickly unravel after being cut away from the sweater.

Her hazel eyes twinkled. “Yes. You know that mittens keep you warmer because your fingers are close.” I nodded and smiled as I turned the Alpine-patterned mitten inside out to find soft, thick fabric lining beneath. Certainly, the mitten was beautifully-constructed.

“Is there any chance you make these for others?” I asked, hopefully. “I’d love to purchase a pair. I admire that you use re-purposed materials and give them a gorgeous second life.”

She replied, “I used to make and sell these mittens at the Rockfish Valley Community Center complex.” I sensed she no longer did.

“So, you re-purpose the items and help a local entrepreneur at the same time. I share your values,” I said. “I’m planning to go to there next week to see their products. One of my writing friends has her book for sale there. I need more copies for gifts.”

Our conversation shifted then to my memoir; Libby had recently read Patchwork. We walked over to the patchwork wall quilt I’d made, that was based on the design of my book’s cover, and talked about various aspects of it.

Sometime later, as Libby prepared to leave, she asked, “Are you familiar with the 17^th century poet, George Herbert?”

“While his name’s familiar,” I replied, “please know 17^th century literature was not my forte in college.”

• 

Thus, I listened closely as Libby talked about a poem by Herbert that she felt might connect with my experience of writing a difficult memoir. Her sensitive insight moved me; then she handed me the white postcard above. I read the Herbert’s words and, deeply moved, thanked her. Subsequently, Libby left for home and I studied the sketch on the card. The forked limbs of angled tree branches extended across the card, each divided into more smaller branches. My heart stopped when I saw a large bud at the end of each fork, along with Libby’s initials, dated 1.17.18:

And now in age I bud again, After so many deaths I live and write; I once more smell the dew and rain… George Herbert, from The Flower

I re-read the printed words aloud:

As if light had turned on in a dark cave, I warmed. Yes, I certainly did smell the dew and rain more intensely these days….

The faces of those who have touched my life both during and since the publication of my memoir—whether in affirmation, support, compassionate and kind words, a hug, a tear, or, as my neighbor had just done, taking the time to illustrate and write the powerful, reflective words of a poet—began a slow, sweet parade in my mind. Did they know, above all, that each precious from-the-heart gift they gave diminished the old darkness and daily bring me more fully into the world?

Subsequently, my favorite word came to mind—Shalom. With time, I have come to understand, even more, its rich depth: of peace, of wholeness, of unity. And then my heart’s greatest hope surfaces: that the kind caring described above will embrace us all as we seek to bring our light into a cloudy afternoon, not just on Friday, but every afternoon.