Waking up in a full anxiety attack is disturbing, but going to bed at 9 pm was probably not the best of ideas. So, I sit and watch HGTV in the middle of the night. My joints ache and I know the rain is coming. When I crack open the window there is nothing but stale, humid, hot air. No rain, just the smell of it coming. I can hear the storm in the distance, and the dog is beside herself in anticipation because she can't get to the back of the closet where she is certain the storm won't get her in any way, shape or form.
Knitting calms me, and slowly, and expectedly the storm builds overhead. Knit, knit, knit, yarn over, purl, purl, yarn over. The repetitive stitches take away my anxiety. Too bad the dog doesn't have thumbs or perhaps she too would find peace in this simple, yet calming task.
When I was a child I remember storms brought this wonderful sense of adventure, and peace to my mother. I would be terrified that the lightening would somehow come into our home and strike us all to pieces, and she would be dragging her kitchen chair to the front door, opening the door, and propping open the door, if the screen wasn't in yet. It didn't matter what season, when the storm came you could count on my mother being there, perched, enjoying the howling windows, the drips from the roof on the steps. She'd urge us to sit right there on the stairs going up to our room so that we too could enjoy all of natures wonders. At night, the crickets would sing, regardless of the rain, and she would watch out the door. She stayed at that door until the very last bit of the storm, and then back to the kitchen she would go with her chair and resume whatever she had been doing.
Sometimes at night, when I had a bad dream or there might be a storm I'd go to the top of the stairs, gazing down to see if the faint glow of the light in the family room was on. Then I would know she was awake too. I'd slowly walk down, and find her, with the television muted, at her quilting stand, making minuscule stitches with the window behind her open so she could hear the rain hit the deck outside, and feel the stale air that brought her, and now I, so much peace. Her concentration was intense when she worked on her quilts as she did every last stitch on the project completely by hand. They were works of art. My knitting is something to calm my nerves, occasionally with the advantage of being a gift for someone thrown in. She always welcomed me, never questioned why I was awake unless I looked disturbed. Sometimes we'd sit and chat, but mostly we'd sit and listen, feel the air, and just be.
Tonight my breaths are deeper, the air is cooler after the intensity of the storm, and only the casual falling of a drizzle continues. I am calm, and I can feel her so closely, almost as if she sits in this room, this chair, with me. If I sit perfectly still, holding a breath in, I can almost feel her reading over my shoulder. As if to confirm this feeling, at the same moment of writing that sentence I hear a roar of thunder that goes on for thirty seconds. "Yes, babe. I'm here. I'm here."
I know you are, Mommy. Tonight, I know you are.
Knit, knit, yarn over, purl, purl, yarn over. The peace continues and my breathing comes back deeper, calmer, as I know I'm not alone tonight. Again, the thunder rolls in the background. Life is so sweet.
Knitting calms me, and slowly, and expectedly the storm builds overhead. Knit, knit, knit, yarn over, purl, purl, yarn over. The repetitive stitches take away my anxiety. Too bad the dog doesn't have thumbs or perhaps she too would find peace in this simple, yet calming task.
When I was a child I remember storms brought this wonderful sense of adventure, and peace to my mother. I would be terrified that the lightening would somehow come into our home and strike us all to pieces, and she would be dragging her kitchen chair to the front door, opening the door, and propping open the door, if the screen wasn't in yet. It didn't matter what season, when the storm came you could count on my mother being there, perched, enjoying the howling windows, the drips from the roof on the steps. She'd urge us to sit right there on the stairs going up to our room so that we too could enjoy all of natures wonders. At night, the crickets would sing, regardless of the rain, and she would watch out the door. She stayed at that door until the very last bit of the storm, and then back to the kitchen she would go with her chair and resume whatever she had been doing.
Sometimes at night, when I had a bad dream or there might be a storm I'd go to the top of the stairs, gazing down to see if the faint glow of the light in the family room was on. Then I would know she was awake too. I'd slowly walk down, and find her, with the television muted, at her quilting stand, making minuscule stitches with the window behind her open so she could hear the rain hit the deck outside, and feel the stale air that brought her, and now I, so much peace. Her concentration was intense when she worked on her quilts as she did every last stitch on the project completely by hand. They were works of art. My knitting is something to calm my nerves, occasionally with the advantage of being a gift for someone thrown in. She always welcomed me, never questioned why I was awake unless I looked disturbed. Sometimes we'd sit and chat, but mostly we'd sit and listen, feel the air, and just be.
Tonight my breaths are deeper, the air is cooler after the intensity of the storm, and only the casual falling of a drizzle continues. I am calm, and I can feel her so closely, almost as if she sits in this room, this chair, with me. If I sit perfectly still, holding a breath in, I can almost feel her reading over my shoulder. As if to confirm this feeling, at the same moment of writing that sentence I hear a roar of thunder that goes on for thirty seconds. "Yes, babe. I'm here. I'm here."
I know you are, Mommy. Tonight, I know you are.
Knit, knit, yarn over, purl, purl, yarn over. The peace continues and my breathing comes back deeper, calmer, as I know I'm not alone tonight. Again, the thunder rolls in the background. Life is so sweet.
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