So, I posted a photo of the unfinished Bittersweet yesterday, and I told you there would be more about it later. Welcome to “more.” I finished this piece last night, cuddled up on the couch watching Netflix. (BTW, if you haven’t checked out “Ripper Street,” it’s a decent period piece from BBC America, and makes good cuddled-up-and-knitting fodder. Find your own cuddle-ee.) I call this piece Bittersweet because that’s the name it has earned.
Bittersweet is supposed to be a bit larger than it is, because there are supposed to be two more balls of yarn in it. Unfortunately, on multiple levels, I have lost contact with the holder of the rest of this yarn. I’d put the piece down in September or October when I realized that I was very near the end of what was in my possession, figuring to pick it up again when I had the rest of the yarn. Yesterday, I made myself finish it with what I had on hand. That is to say, yesterday I achieved another measure of closure. This piece is the last tangible tie between then and now. I have put the rest away already.
As you can see, it’s pretty short and a bit frillier than my normal work. The extra length and weight would have worked most of that frilliness out, but it is usable as is, particularly if I put a button on it instead of closing it with a brooch. It will go well with many of my brown clothes, and it’s a good accent piece. And it feels divine around my neck, being mostly cashmere. But, Bittersweet. I do not know if I will ever wear it again or not.
Now it is going to appear that I am changing subjects, but I’m really not. I related the story of this piece and the yarn to a friend of mine this morning. And I thought I was done. And then, when my mouth stopped moving, my mind started working. The pattern recognition software that is installed in my brain went tick, Yarn Holder, tick, Step-father, TICK, Father. Walls of silence are not a new phenomena for me. Walls of unbeing. This feeling is one to which I have become accustomed due to prolonged and repeated exposure.
This is how I know that homosexuals really are born that way. Because men, as has been noted by one who knows me well, have been a firestorm on my life. And not just husbands/friends/lovers, but also men in the form of fiduciary guardians. Maybe moreso in that capacity, because there is such an element of…dentrayal. That’s a made up word. It means denial and betrayal. Which is a word that had to be made up because there is no other word to go with the usually mutually exclusive actions of denial and betrayal. I often say that if I had a choice, I would be gay, because men. But I can’t. The best I can do is asexuality, and that only works for a few years at a time.
And this also brings me back around to non-attachment. It is only because I practice non-attached loving that I am able to handle some situations with any grace at all. Because I don’t want to be bitter. I choose not to be angry. And the principles of non-attachment allow me to say “You are perfect in your (insert name)ness. Namaste.” The principles of non-attachment allow me to let go of that which is not meant for me without leaving claw marks on relationships or people.
I noted today that I have come a long way in regards to my dad’s death. I can reflect on him when I bring him consciously to mind without distress these days. I’ve had a number of comforting dreams lately in which he appeared. But when my subconscious does its work, when my own brain slaps me with that loss from out of nowhere…then I am a small and wounded child again.