Lately, I’ve not been quite myself. Some sad and tragic events for folks I know have left me feeling rather fragmented. They are from different walks of my life, yet the news hit one after another. It is the worst sort of news. The kind that involves services. And children reading eulogies.
I’ve discovered the tears come much easier as I grow older. I’m a flat-out crybaby, as it turns out. I know that I will never understand why certain things happen. And I am trying to find grace in accepting such facts of life. I do not have to look far—there is no finer example than in the faith of the two families affected. And this, of course, brings tears to my eyes.
To distract me a bit, I think I’ll pick up a challenging knit. Something with cables and multiple repeats requiring vigilant counting, and heck, maybe even some color work. That, or I will cast on a stockinette cardi and get lost in some mindless tv. I’ve said it before but here it is again: there is no better therapy for me than some wool and some sticks.
I have one more week of summer with a full house of boys and noise. I am going to try to slow it down and cherish it. There is more to life than getting bent out of shape over Legos everywhere (though I maintain that finding them in my pantry is a bit much).