Life is for the living

There are often times when I feel the need to remind myself to do things: do the dishes, fold the laundry, tidy up my desk, clean out the refrigerator and remove that slimy bit of whatever that has managed to fall behind the jar of mayonnaise. But I rarely remind myself to be alive.

Sure, I'm alive in the breathing, moving, eating, blood-coursing-through-my-veins sort of way but being truly alive has so much more meaning than housework and day-to-day 9-to-5 sort of stuff. We've all been there; in a rut with no foreseeable way out. There are always so many things standing between doing the things we need to do and doing the things we want to do. There are time constraints, financial barriers, work obligations, and sometimes, just outright laziness. My laziness is what makes me a bad blogger, though I love to write. My best thoughts come to me when I lay my head down at night in hopes of getting a good night's sleep but I'm usually too tired to get up and dispense with the 'brain vomit'. I need to get it out of my head if I'm to have any hope of truly resting but I can't be bothered to extract my body from the warm, comfy sheets to come downstairs and sit at my computer for 10 minutes to do so. The release I enjoy from being creative brings a sense of calm that is so genuinely welcomed in my life. That's probably why I knit so much. In the same way that writing settles my mind, knitting affords a peace as well as tangible evidence of my creative work. But knitting elicits many more ''oohs'' and ''aahs'' than most of what I put on paper or the computer screen. I feel a sense of closure when I finish a project, that all my dedication, hard work, and, sometimes, cursing because I've had to rip back 3 rows of a lace project because I realized I missed an all-important yarn over or forgot to knit two together has finally paid off.

My grandmother had the outlet of cooking. I'm sure it started out of necessity to keep her family well-fed as best she could, even when times were tough. She could cook anything and cook it well. There was very little of her cooking that I wouldn't eat, even though my mother couldn't get me to eat the same food at home. There was just something about Grandma's cooking that was, well, magical. Tomatoes seemed more red, corn seemed sweeter, green beans were little sticks of joy, drizzled in bacon grease from the morning's breakfast. (I never said her cooking was particularly healthy, but it was tasty.) She always had a garden so during the summer everything was fresh and wonderful. What she could not use right away would be canned or frozen for use in the winter. When she knew I was coming over, she would cook her special apples for me: sliced and cooked with butter, sugar and cinnamon. She chose to spend most of her time in the kitchen - even when she wasn't cooking - and I believe she developed a love for what she did there, even though to others it would have been considered nothing but work. While she was there, listening to her radio or watching the news on her little black and white television, she liked to do crossword puzzles. She felt that they helped to keep her mind sharp and allowed her to broaden her vocabulary. She did crosswords every day: TV Guide crosswords, newspaper crosswords, crossword books that everyone in the family bought her for birthdays and Christmases. Grandma loved filling in those little boxes and completing each puzzle, no matter how difficult. They showed how much determination she had and the proof was right in front of her. It wasn't about showing others that she could do it, it was about knowing she could do it and proving that to herself. I even did a few alongside her to understand why she was so crazy about them and found that I, too, liked them. They were never a part of my daily life but I did enjoy doing the occasional word game.

She was always afraid of 'losing it', about not having the wherewithal to take care of herself. I could never imagine that because, as far as I'd ever known, Grandma was the strongest person I'd ever known. She raised four children during some of the leanest times imaginable, in a rural area where resources were not ideal. She made her children's clothing and those pieces of clothing were handed down to the next child who could wear them. She darned socks to get the most life out of them because, even though in later years when money was not so much of an issue, she didn't see the sense in spending money if it was not truly necessary. She used clothing that was beyond repair to make dust rags. Everything had a use even when it no longer seemed useful. She showed an enormous amount of strength when living with my alcoholic grandfather became overwhelming. At an age when most women would have simply resigned themselves to dealing with the situation, she left him and proved that she was more than capable of living on her own, no matter what he said to the contrary. She showed more fortitude than anyone I know when her youngest son took his own life at the age of 42, though I know inside it was killing her. And she kept on doing her crossword puzzles because they were her comfort. Until her comfort began to become her pain. Grandma started having trouble recalling simple words. She also started having trouble remembering where she had put things. And when my mother received a call from the neighbor 3 miles down the road from Grandma's house who said 'Your mother is here. Can you come get her?", we realized that she had forgotten to turn around on her daily walk and go back home. Grandma was soon thereafter diagnosed with Alzheimer's. The difficult decision was made to place her in the local nursing home.

At first, she hated the home but she came to grips with knowing that this is where she would be living for the rest of her days. She made several friends there, though some days they became her 'new' friends because she didn't remember them from the day before. I visited her one day and she saw me as someone she recognized but did not know who I was. It was then that I knew that Grandma may have been there in body, but the Grandma I knew and loved so much and who had taught me invaluable life lessons was gone. She was a shell of her former self.

Grandma died yesterday. Her body finally checked out just as her mind had done several years before. She was taken to the hospital where she suffered congestive heart failure. I'm not sad that she died, rather I'm sad that her mind had betrayed her and that all of the memories she may have still carried with her were a jumbled mess. I'm sad that the things she loved to do meant little, if nothing, to her in the end. I'm sad that I saw the decline. I'm sad that I lived too far away to see her often enough. I'm sad that I will not be able to attend her funeral due to time constraints, work obligations and financial barriers. The biggest problem with living abroad is that when something like this occurs, it is difficult to arrange a trip home but even more difficult to know that I can't get home.

The best thing I can do now to honor my grandmother is to live. I will knit more. I will write more. I will knit beautiful things for those I love in the most luxurious fibers I can afford and will spend a little extra every time I am able. I will knit for babies to give them something warm and comforting upon entering this crazy world. I will write letters to those I care about and tell them just that: that I care deeply for them and how much they mean to me.

And I will do crossword puzzles and think about Grandma every time I put pen to paper.

I love you Grandma and I miss you.