Rain, Rain

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Rain, rain, please please stay.

I so enjoy a rainy day.

My wrinkles seem to fall away.

My curls are back and looking great.

The garden’s happier this way.

The kids are stuck inside to play (yay!)

 

Rain, we love to hear your sound

Of droplets dripping to the ground,

Of distant thunder moving in,

Of creaking branches in the wind.

 

Ha! There goes the satellite dish,

In answer to my fervent wish,

To shut that Disney channel down,

Put Sponge Bob’s whining out of bounds.

 

The oldest wants to read her book:

 

(Ankles crossed upon the table,

Bag of chips torn through the label,

She digs her way through Rowling’s fable.

She doesn’t even miss the cable).

 

The second child just wants to cook:

(Dinner bubbles on the stove, and

Scents damp air with spice and cloves.

Flour and yeast rise into loaves,

As rivers slide down panes in droves).

 

My third child only wants to look:

 

(She, out the steamy window sees,

And feels the violence of the trees,

And checks the dove’s nest in the eaves,

And worries over honey bees).

 

Puzzle pieces snap in place.

Cocoa’s drunk at dizzying pace.

“Remember when” by the fireplace.

I try to memorize her face.

 

For with the dawn of the shining sun,

I’ll lose my children one by one.

Gone from kitchen, gone from chair,

Into breezes warm and fair.

 

So Rain, Rain, please please stay.

Keep them home just one more day?

 

 

 

 

On Why I Craft:

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I take a lot of heat from my friends about being crafty.   They think it’s funny that I like to make things, and that I like to make things that would be much cheaper and easier to buy.  When one of them joked that my living room was beginning to look like the lobby of the Cracker Barrel Restaurant, I started to give my craft projects to charity.  But I still make things.

Even as a child I liked to crochet.  My Grandmother taught me how.  When I was in high school and college, I earned my spending money as a lifeguard, and I crafted to dispel the quiet of the rainy days by making pictures with a scrap of linen and needle and thread.  In my thirties I learned to quilt.  Recently, I took up knitting.  I just can’t help myself; I like to make stuff. 

I used to tell myself I made things because I wanted to fill inevitable empty hours producing something useful, instead of wasting my time watching TV, or reading tabloids in waiting rooms, but I have gradually become aware over the years that I do it for a different reason.   Crafting is therapeutic.  It’s more than therapeutic.  If I do it right, it sets my thoughts to music.  If I find a quiet place, with good light, and allow myself to hear the rhythmic clacking of my knitting needles, or to feel the quilting needle hit my thimble as it rocks melodically through the layers of cloth, I can send my worries over the rhythm of the work, and if I am patient and listen carefully, the rhythm of the work will float the answers back to me.

For the time I embellished a story to a new friend to make a point (former therapists and writers of fiction are at high risk to do this. I am both),  and she perceived that as a lie, and I got a stomachache every time I thought about it: knit one, pearl two, knit one, purl two.  Am I a liar?  Knit one, purl two. Did I mean to hurt her with my story?  No, I meant to help her.  Knit one, purl two.  It isn’t nice to therapize your friends.  Knit one, purl two.  Telling the story, that way, was a mistake.  Knit one, purl two.  Apologize. Knit one, purl two.  A true friend will forgive.  Knit one, purl two.  If not, learn.  Breathe.  Move on.  Knit one, purl two.

For the time my daughter was late, really late, home from the movies with a friend, and I could hear sirens, and I hadn’t really trusted the parent that picked her up: stitch five across blue, five back blue.  The crosses formed by the stitches remind me the angels are with her.  Stitch ten across green, ten back green.  “She is fine,” I tell myself, “They must be out for a coffee, or a coke, or something.”  Stitch one and a half, yellow. The front door finally opens and I find myself misty, and I hug her hard and send her to bed, and I smell alcohol thick on the breath of the mother when she apologizes.  Four stitches down red.  Four stitches up.  Thank you God; thank you God, thank you.   Eight stitches across, green.  Eight stitches back.  

For the time I had a terrible, terrible argument with my husband.  I can remember neither the source nor the resolution of that argument, but it was so bad, it brought the children out of their beds, crying and afraid in their footie pajamas, wild eyed, not knowing where their loyalties should lie.  There was a week of terrifying silence to follow. Needle up, needle down.  Needle up, needle down.  I feared I would not be married at the end of it. Needle up, needle down.  Be patient.  Needle up.  He needs some time.  Needle down.  Keep making his supper and his bed.  Needle up, needle down.   It doesn’t matter.  Needle up, needle down.   Love him anyway.  Needle up, needle down.

For praying my dearest friend through her painful divorce, knit one, purl two. For watching the Twin Towers fall, two stitches across, two stitches back.  For raising children and keeping faith in a husband, needle up, needle down.   The stitches turn to a chant, the chant to prayer, and the prayer to truth.  No matter what I am called to mourn or worry, I can stitch my way through it. 

And that is why I do it; that’s why I craft.  The lobby of the Cracker Barrel be damned.