I recently picked up the crochet hook again. Yup, I'm a hooker! Back in my mid 20's a friend of mine taught me how to make a chevron afghan. I had grown up watching mom crochet and knit but I didn't ask her to show me how. I just admired that she could make such nice things. Way back when, I remember her helping my great grandma crochet after she had lost her eyesight to diabetes. I still have some hot pads grandma made from thick acrylic yarn.
Through my late 20's and 30's I found myself hording yarn as people do. For a short time, while working at a job that flew me back and forth across the country, I would sit in bustling airports and whip through rows and rows of crochet. It was a great way to pass the time. And when my travels were particularly stressful, I found the task to be helpful in soothing my nerves. I have a king-sized afghan on our guest room bed that traveled with me; first as giant skeins of cream-colored yarn then work its way into a basket weave blanket as if my magic. a man once watched me from across the aisle at an airport somewhere. He finally said "it's amazing! I have never seen anyone knit so fast." Of course, I had to correct him because I can't knit for my life. I chatted a bit then returned my attention to the soothing comfort of repetitive counting. Over the years my life changed, and I gradually set aside all the hooks and yarn, occupying myself with other hobbies.
I returned to crochet this winter. Some of you may know that my mother passed away in December, just a couple weeks before Christmas. It has been very difficult for me. She had been my closest confidant, idol and true friend since I can remember. When her health began to deteriorate, I became her closest confidant and constant companion. We were two peas in a pod most of the time. I wasn't ready to let her go but I didn't have a choice in the matter.
I cried and slept for weeks, afraid to do anything or go anywhere because I couldn't seem to hold it together. I eventually began listening to audio books and podcasts about mourning and grief. Some were helpful, others were not. And as I began to emerge from the cave I had been sheltering in, my nephew sent me a picture of the ugliest chevron afghan I have ever seen. He had found it in a thrift store and was in love with how ugly it was. He commented that he wouldn't be disappointed if "someone" were to make him something like this for his birthday which was about 6 weeks away. He knew I could do it, I made him a hat once that he wore for ages until he lost it. So, I searched the craft room for our crochet hooks and set about remembering how to crochet again. That week I also listened to a self-help book where the author talked about the healing power of keep one's hands busy. She suggested needle work and I took it all as a sign.
The afghan took 8 skeins of the most awful combination of yarn. He loved it. and my niece commissioned a baby blanket for her to gift to a friend. That combination was much prettier, and I took the opportunity to learn a new pattern (it looks like fish scales). I began making dish cloths and scrubbies and these cute little tea pot drip catchers... making up my own patterns along the way. I figured I could sell them at the farmer's markets this summer.
One evening I was whipping up a washcloth and thinking about what to call these happy little things when I remembered a conversation mom and I had a long time ago. We had been sitting on the swing outside, listening to the birds. I commented that the doves sounded so sad, and she said, "That is why they are called Mourning Doves." I had never seen the name in print. I thought they were Morning Doves! And suddenly it all made sense. I would call my crochet projects "Mourning Dove Crochet" because this simple activity was truly helping me live through the loss of my mom.
I'm learning that I will never "get over" the loss of my mom. When you love someone so much you can't really ever stop missing them. But I am also learning that I can live with the sorrow. That the ache isn't going to go away; just change. I will have good day's and bad days. And eventually the bad days won't consume me. Until then, I can return my attention to the soothing repetition of counting.
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