Ordinary Life

During the last month, I broke from Instagram. The constant barrage of the news is not good for the calm state of being I’ve worked so hard to attain since retirement and the many hours spent in contemplation of nature and her healing gifts. The challenge of finding those I follow, or content I wished to see, thanks to the algorithm and the constant insertion of ads, was an impingement that if an actual human was doing it to you would have you on an analyst’s couch for years. In retrospect, I’m rather appalled at how much time I spent on something that is not really real and contributes to cognitive decline, or rather “brain rot” is the term, my granddaughter informs me.

Somehow this aversion bleeds into Substack too, which is why there has not been a post since September. I find this platform becoming more like a social media one than when I first arrived, and it was clearly about writing. Today, I watch as influencers and celebrities come and use this as another means to promote their brand. While I have a good number of free subscribers, because I have chosen not to use my Substack to monetize, I don’t appear on “rising” lists in any category, including ageing. This is fine. These days I take pleasure in writing for the sake of writing without expectation of a result. Those who would like to read what I write will find me. None of my fixed-income subscribers will have to worry about whether they can afford a subscription. If I ever need to make additional money to support my now fixed income, I will probably work in a bookstore or even sell something I make at a craft fair. I won’t ever subject an activity I love to branding or monetization again (been there, done that). Most likely, I’ll just continue learning how to live with less and take part in a gift economy.

What have I filled these newly gained hours with? There has been the Art of Clothing (see my last post). I’m two sessions in, and the lesson I’m clearly meant to learn is how to embrace imperfection and tolerate feeling incompetent. My hand stitches are not all the same size, nor do they always follow a straight line. The fabric markers fade, leaving me in the dark and on my own to figure out seam allowances. My bright indigo-blue rectangle of dyed linen faded because I didn’t take it off the line fast enough. My hands fumble, and my brain doesn’t seem able to grasp easily what I am supposed to do. I feel utterly incompetent, and I realize that when it comes to “making,” I’ve never allowed myself to be in this state for the time you need to become competent. My string of degrees is evidence of the only place in the world I ever felt competent: school. The structure of this course means I will have to persevere for at least a year. When sharing these feelings last Saturday, this lovely community I find myself in assures me that being imperfect is the thing that makes each project beautiful. And they remind me, “Imperfect according to who?” They share a poem they apply to the idea that when you dip your fabric into the dye, you cannot know the outcome and for that reason, it is best not to have one in mind. My spiritual work this year has been to learn to trust my intuition. Doing so perhaps led me to this class, this structure, seeming to know the lessons I still need to learn and teaching me patience.

I’ve taken up knitting. My mother and grandmother were both expert knitters. My grandmother could knit entire outfits, long skirts with matching sweaters and jackets. I remember the suit she knitted using purple grosgrain ribbon instead of wool and the lavender lipstick she wore to match it. My mother was wonderful at making Nordic design sweaters and hats, which she made for her grandchildren until dementia made it hard for her to remember stitch counts and how to make a particular stitch. One of them — I can’t remember who — taught me to knit and purl when I was a girl as well as how to cast on stitches. The women I attend the Art of Clothing with make clothing in other ways than just sewing them. They are knitters, spinners, dyers and weavers. Last Saturday at lunch I learned that there are two modes of knitting, Continental and English. The method taught to me was English, and that lets me know it was my grandmother who taught me to knit.

There is a local creative reuse shop here in Peekskill called Retake/Remake that carries a supply of wool and knitting needles and anything else you might need if you are engaged in creative work. I picked up some wool and needles and started a very simple project of making fingerless gloves. After a few false starts, I could make a pair not only for me but for my granddaughter as well. She now attends a Catholic school; her little uniform fills me with memories and nostalgia for mine. She now has days off; her parents don’t. One recent day we took the train together to a lovely little town not too far north and spent the day walking, talking and popping into the lovely little shops. Our mission was to get her mother a birthday present. She has a good eye. We went into a yarn store, and she picked out the color she wanted for her pair of gloves, a pale baby blue that matches the color of her oversized backpack. There is enough wool left to make her a winter headband that will cover her ears, as she prefers to wear her long hair up for school. I have photos on my phone we took of each of us jumping in the air. We spent at least 30 minutes getting this right. Lunch, sitting on the porch of a restaurant once an old house, allowed for catching up and conversation, and we ended the day with a matcha latte before heading home.

Somehow, perhaps in my looking through easy beginner knitting projects on YouTube the next time I went to Retake/Remake for supplies, I picked up and took home a pair of circular needles. Though I have never learned how to use them, a vague image of my mother and grandmother clicking away, round and round, pricks my memory. I realize my grandmother must have had to use them to create the intricately pleated tweed-like skirts and dresses she made. A memory appears out of nowhere, the way they do when you’re old. A dress, long-sleeved, tan background with teal, fuschia, orange and white stripes. My mother knitted it for me when I was in college. I always kept it and resurrected it in the late 80s. I wore it with cowboy boots, pointy toes the probable cause of the large bunion that is now on my right foot.

As this retrieved memory suggests, my mind now works in backward design mode; I pick up a finished garment and then try to figure out the process that began with a piece of fabric or a single skein of wool. I look at an object or photo and trace back to the memory of the context that situated it. I decided to make a cowl that matches the pair of fingerless gloves I made for myself. I realize it is of a bright color palette, like the dress my mother knitted for me. Her fingerprint.

The wool is in gradients of purple, lavender, burnt orange, terracotta and white. I research and labor over how many stitches to cast on. It’s a complicated formula that depends on the kind and weight of wool you are using. I cast on and pull out at least four times. I join the rounds incorrectly and start again. I place the stitch holder to designate the beginning and end of a round. After the first round that feels very stiff, the second and third go easier, and before long I am going around fairly easily. Knit one, purl one. I made the mistake of doing two knits and noticed it in time to take out some stitches and go back and fix the mistake. I move on. I am lulled into a peacefulness and calm that have been elusive. I discovered research that suggests knitting can put one into a meditative state and that it lowers your blood pressure. After I finish the cowl, I move on to the next project, which is also in the round: a beanie. I can finally wear hats now that my hair is long; they never looked right when I wore it short. Knitting in the round is a spiral, back and forward, and suddenly it reminds me of the path I’ve been on this last year in therapy, spirals returning to the past, picking up stitches that were dropped, weaving them back in. Life looped around and around for 72 years. The process of ageing manifests in what I am creating.

The state of calm when I knit is addictive; I want to do it all the time. But there is more hand sewing to do to complete my first project. There are winter coughs and viruses, which means grandchildren to care for because they can’t go to school. Calvin and I have some plans for indoor house projects. This begins with a very heavy cleaning because I hate cleaning and avoid it until the condition of the house gets intolerable. Yet I cannot find it in me to hire someone else to do it. But something happened this time that was quite amazing. I connected with my house in a way I never had before. It’s been five years since we moved into it, and many things have happened during that time. The decline and death of my mother, the almost moving far away that didn’t happen with my daughter, Calvin’s diagnosis, a book written and published, and daily childcare for my grandson for the first year of his life. Because you are all thoughtful and will ask, Calvin has finished radiation treatment and is now on two different hormone treatments for the next two years. We are optimistic. He is tired but gaining more strength every day and recently built us a set of wooden carriage house garage doors. Perhaps a kinder analysis of my not cleaning is that I had too much going on to deal with, not that I am a lazy slob.

It took me a week to get through just the first floor. I took down every curtain and washed them, scrubbed walls, cleaned out cabinets and made a simple rule: if we hadn’t used something in the last five years and would not in the next, it had to go to some other home. The old carpeting on the front hallway stairs, which was literally full of dirt and dust no matter how much you vacuumed, came off. After the holidays, we will sand and stain the stairs, repair the hallway plaster cracks, and paint the walls, completing the first-floor work. But I have a new relationship with my house and my feelings about cleaning. Unbelievably, I like to do it now. I bought myself a big-ass vacuum cleaner and all the right cleaning supplies. Calvin has a saying: “The right tools for the job make the job easier.” I find this to be true with cleaning. At night before bed I tidy up, clean the sink and the stove, and vacuum the errant crumbs of the day. I even give the toilets a swipe.

As I read this, I marvel at how “ordinary” my life has become compared to what used to go viral on Instagram and how much this “ordinary” suits me. The phrase I used to introduce my blog Accidental Icon was, “For ordinary women who live extraordinary lives.” While I am not jetting around the world and spending time with fashion designers, I still think the phrase applies to my life as I have come to live it today.