Loops and Whorls and Arches
finding rituals during what i will look back on as a 'wild time in my life'
I find myself to be good at things when I actually do it. This does not include sports, math, or talking to elderly people. It also does not include knitting. In October my newly ex-partner visited me in Eugene and they taught me how to knit. We went to a yarn store with nice wool and the lady put it on a big ball winder. Then they showed me how to use those pointy little sticks, called needles, to make hundreds of loops. A new ritual. A week ago I flew to DC to visit my ex-partner. A few days in, their mom’s new dog found my hundreds of loops and decided to make his own loops—which turned into a huge tangled mess which I brought along to Thanksgiving dinner in case I needed something to do. I didn’t, because their 90-year-old grandpa had a good bit to say about Yeats and how “Poets keep the people alive.” I’m a big fan of him. He is from Ireland and is very cute.
On Sunday I decided to take the ball apart. I ripped the stitches out and began the process of restarting. It is now Tuesday and I have restarted the scarf six times. I am not good at knitting. But all the tiny loops made me think about the word ‘whorls’, a word that has been on my mind a lot lately. Whorls are the circular or spiral pattern on the tips of your fingers. There are also loops—which curve, and arches—which look like waves. How nice. Loops and whorls and arches.
I’ve been trying to reach for something other than my phone in the mornings. A morning grab bag of sorts. Knitting is good, though I’m not good at it. My loops touch the other loops and we’re off spinning. It’s better than the colors on my screen. It’s better than worrying about the new variant or wondering when I’ll ever sleep in my bed again or watching a plane take off in an airport and wondering How the Hell is That Possible.
Even though Red wrecked version 1 of my new-bad-hobby (Red’s mom says that every artist needs a pointless task to get to the real stuff), I took him on a lot of walks this week. Another ritual. I pretended he was mine and sometimes my ex was with us and I pretended he was ours.
Yes, I’m exhausted. And yes, I cannot wait to sleep in my bed tonight. It’s been a difficult 4 months. I walk around with this feeling that I’m not where I’m supposed to be. There have been little reprieves—my best friend’s bridal shower, coming here to D.C, phone calls with my brother. I’ve had two Big Thoughts that have been keeping me grounded.
Growing up being queer in a god loving household was difficult. Those are stories for another Tuesday. But I did know how to pray. And I knew how to ask for prayer. I’m beginning to learn to pray again (to a different god) and I’m learning how to ask for help. Somewhere in my liminal years of belief, I had to become a little tougher. And so I accidentally stopped believing in friendship; In dismantling my ideas of religion, the idea of family went down with it, and somehow friendships didn’t survive the fall, either. I am learning how to ask for help without having flashbacks of hands hovering over my head praying for me. But it’s a long process.
If I were to take away all the different parts of me—my various jobs and responsibilities, my relationships with people or food or land, rhythms and routines—what would I choose to put back in my life? In times of crisis or overwhelming seasons, it’s helpful to get rid of the things that don’t serve me. And then, once I’m well and praying and asking for help, I can begin to put things back in. Most importantly, I can be mindful about what is in my life.
Those are my thoughts. The sky is really lovely right now. I hope you all are well. Remember that poets keep the people alive. If you want to be a poet, you are one.
Love,
Jo
*Edit: my ex-partner texted me to say that their grandfather is not from Ireland, but Washington State. In their words, “When my grandma got her citizenship he did pretend he was getting his too.” So, for facts sake, I’m a big fan of him. He is from Washington State and is very cute.