Crochet and Cry: The DIY Guide to Emotional Release
Transforming grief through fiber arts.
I mourn my aunt's passing, and have since I stumbled upon the Facebook post announcing the date for my aunt's celebration of life.
"Celebration of life."
At first, the words were just words. They meant nothing. But then, with a jolt of understanding, they meant something.
My aunt is gone.
I was a kid again, getting the wind knocked out of me by a soccer ball to the gut at soccer practice. The air whooshed from my lungs and my stomach hurt.
I couldn't bear to speak the words and make it real, so I texted my boyfriend, who was in the next room.
"I just found out my aunt died."
The moment I sent the message, tears began cascading down my cheeks.
Mourning
For two days, I did little but cry and manically write down every memory of my aunt I could squeeze out of my brain. When I ran out of tears and memories, I laid in bed and just existed.
Two days into my mourning, my boyfriend insisted I put on real clothes so we could go to one of those big box craft stores. We wandered the aisles of yarn, contemplating each skein, searching for the best deal and prettiest colored yarn.
None of them resonated with me--or at least none of the selections in my price range called out to me--until I made one last trip down the aisles and saw the last three 1-lb skeins of this Deep Violet yarn. It was perfect, so I took them home with me.
Not even 10 minutes after arriving home, the yarn was on my hook and I began crocheting a blanket.
Row after row of half double crochet.
It felt like penance. Each stitch was an apology. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry I was gone for so long.
For a good part of the first week, it was all I could do. I couldn't write, or do much else, and so I crocheted. One stitch after the other.
Sometimes, I'd crochet in silence and let my thoughts wander as they wished; mainly, they ran through memories of my aunt. I'd let my mind explore the edges of my pain, much in the same way my tongue will poke and prod at a canker sore just to see how much it hurts.
Most of the time, though, the loss hit too hard, and so I distracted myself with anything that could hold my attention while allowing me to continue my crafting.
All of it was sad: the music, the audiobooks, the documentaries, all of it. I needed to embrace the pain in order to get through it.
I cried. Of course, I cried. Tears would fill my eyes, blurring my vision, and still I would crochet, using my hands and muscle memory to create stitch after stitch.
In two days, the first 1lb of yarn was gone. I wasn't done mourning, though, so I attached the new ball of yarn to the end of the old and kept going.
I'm not done with the blanket, nor am I quite finished with my mourning, either. But, I can see a future where my pain is less acute, and where I can hold onto this blanket imbued with memories and love for my aunt whenever I miss her.
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