Knitting Peace

She's gone.  A little over a week ago her last breath came and went and was no more.

Peace and Sweet Release

The most appropriate response it seemed for me was to knit.  I'd been toying with some lanolin-rich Irish yarn for a small project--a gathering pouch for a young lad to stash collected treasures while he adventures about his yard.  I found that taking the time from the other Things I get to do today to sit rather still, hold the yarn in its serpentine around my tensioning fingers and let the thoughts of my dear friend Karen* who gifted me the yarn and who has so recently departed this physical plane knit themselves into a place of peace was a perfect way to hold her and her memory is a sacred space.

We had time to chat--I could hear her voice from a place beyond.  We laughed.  And cried a bit.   And remembered.  But mostly, I just sat with the yarn that had been hers, was now mine, and would be someone else's soon, and found a soft sweetness in releasing Karen to the next phase of her being, honoring her memory with each stitch.

*Some past posts that include Karen:  Open Season, A Gaggle of Swifts, Peace of Yarns, Gifted by Friend, Sniffing the Sights, Hilda Saves the Day, Rake Leaves/Play Ball.

R I P Aunt Ruth

The view from Aunt Ruth's window--the birches, the knoll

Her wish came true.  A devout lover of Nature, all its beauty, its changing seasons and nuances and grandeur, Aunt Ruth wanted to be in the middle of it, connected by more than thought, surrounded, sustained, and soothed by it.






She quietly, sweetly, gracefully left her body March 4 at the age of 99.  She apologized for not making it to 100 and was surprised a bit the morning before her passing that she hadn't slipped away in the night as she had expected!  Goodness and grace right straight through to the end and beyond.

But she wanted to visit those gentle birch trees across that field who moods had entertained her year round--naked and black-branched against the snow,  fresh and bright in spring, green and fluttering in the summer wind, and brilliant with fall yellow.  And now her wish is granted.

July 28th her huge family, 8 children and all their children and all their children, plus nieces, nephews and friends made their way from the house, along the fence line and up the little hill.  Music as sweet as the summer breeze floated through the trees and down the knoll as each of her children took her/his turn with a scoop of ashes to be joined, finally, with the goodness of Nature.

  May she Rock In Peace!

Part of the Things I get to do today: watch this sacred ritual from the sidelines and remember the last stanza of "Thanatopsis" which fit her to perfection.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join that

Innumerable caravan which moves 

To that Mysterious Realm where each shall take 

His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go not, as the quarry-slave, by night, 

Scourged to thy dungeon; but, sustain'd and soothed 

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,

As one who wraps the drapery of his couch 

About him and lies down to pleasant dreams.

William Cullen Bryant

"Mom's Mountain Salon" the plaque reads.