For the tender and joyful parts inside of us
Or, a few musings on how knitting can find that spot where sadness and joy co-exist
Content note: In this letter, I talk about grief and loss. If you are managing grief right now, you might want to skip this one. Or you might want to read it. I’m not sure. Only you know how your heart is feeling and what would feel supportive. I trust you to take good care of yourself.
Grief is a funny thing. It never really goes away. It’s more like the ocean. Always there, sometimes calm, sometimes quiet, sometimes roaring. My little brother died in a car crash so, so many years ago. He was just 20 years old then, and he’d be 52 today. I’ve lived with grief longer than my brother was alive, and far longer than he and I lived together.
I don’t talk about him much, but if a new friend or acquaintance asks me if I have siblings, I will always say, “yes, but my lil brother died a long time ago, so now I’m an only.” It’s a lot, and most folks don’t usually say much more after getting that unexpected answer. Just a mumbled, oh, I’m so sorry.
A few years ago, my friend, Tyne (an amazing knitwear designer in her own right | links to Ravelry) was admiring a picture on my fireplace mantle of my little brother and me. He was 3 and I was 7, and we are rocking our 70s outfits, together with our beautiful Grammy. Rather than make that quiet, awkward noise people make when they encounter someone else’s grief, Tyne admired Jeff’s socks, which were the classic 70s tube sock style, and she immediately got him. That little boy, the impish grin, the feet that couldn’t wait to get moving again. She suggested I turn those adorable socks into a pattern.
It took a while for me to fully embrace the idea. I don’t like to show my grief outwardly to anyone except those who are closest to me. But it’s always there. Sometimes roaring, sometimes quiet. An absence that has become a companion.
But along with the sadness is also a joy: the joy that my little brother was uniquely, positively, awesomely himself. He wore 70s style tube socks with his sneakers and peddled his Big Wheel as fast as lightening. He was that annoying little brother who wouldn’t leave me and my friends alone. He wouldn’t play the right way with the Barbies and tried to cut off her hair. He ran to greet me at the bottom of our long driveway when the school bus brought me home in the afternoon and gave me squeezy hugs.
He and I spent our kid years in the grooviest possible decade: the 70s. These were the years of long pointed shirt collars, women's lib, rhythm and blues, and long hair for everyone. I wore faux patchwork shirts, and he wore Garanimals mix-and-match clothing. We watched the Harlem Globetrotters Saturday morning cartoons and grew up when basketball players wore Chuck Taylor All-Stars on the court.
So, for these socks, I have tried to bring out that sense of being a little kid. Of running and climbing trees. Of fleeting childhood, when the world feels big and conquerable all at once.
This is a sock that’s also a poignant reminder that life can be both fragile and joyful, happy and sad all at once. They’re for everyone who wants to remember a loved one, for everyone who wants to reconnect with the kid inside, and for everyone who wants to play with color.
In other words, they’re for you and for me and for little brothers everywhere.
Friends, I am absolutely positively rooting for you (and for me) to hold our loved ones dear, to feel the absences, and to let joy and sunlight in. There are just a few things I know to be true in life, and one of them is that love, joy and grief co-exist. We can feel the happiness and sadness, all at once.
One of my favorite poets, Ka’ala, a native Hawaiian author, teacher and musician says it this way:
i want to feel it all –
and i want it all to feel me.
—ka’ala
My father died in 1979 after an 18 year battle with cancer. You are so right about grief. Even though I've been alive long without my dad then I was with him, there still are times when the wave of grief almost knocks me down. Still for the most part now, I'm able to enjoy the memories and be grateful for the times we did share.
Oh my, this post really resonated with me. Anne, I am so sorry about the loss of your dear little brother so long ago. It is so true that grief never really leaves us. We find a way to build our life around it and we hold our loved ones in our heart and our memories for the rest of our life.
You are so wise, Anne. I love how you express yourself and your insights into life and knitting and the intersections between our emotions, life experiences and knitting. I knit for a creative outlet, of course, but also for meditation and for alone time to process feelings and musings. To think about my loved ones for whom I may be knitting. I really do try to put love into every stitch.
I lost my beloved parents within 5 months of each other in the last year and a half. Even though they were elderly, it has discombobulated my world. My journey is learning how to feel the sadness, grief and joy at the same time. That, I think, is healing.
Blessings to you, and thank you for sharing your tender heart.