Tag Archives: knitting therapy

Star light, star bright, the first star I see tonight

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It’s mild out and I’m sweating in my coat, softly cursing my heatgen underwear, wishing I had had the foresight to check the weather forecast before committing to clothes. I’m also wishing I had packed my umbrella, another reason for checking Thursday’s intentions in advance of entering into her orbit, but it’s too late now, so I unbutton my coat, shed my hat and gloves and thank God for his kindness. In December, 14 degrees is an unexpected gift: I’ll not be condemning the horse or speaking ill of the dead, even if it does mean juggling extra pieces. I wipe water from my nose with a tissue and close my handbag; it’s spitting slightly and threatening to rain and the sky looks positively angry. In truth, I’m slightly scared. Ominous and oppressive come to mind; vindictive, also. I walk fast, hoping to make it to the station unscathed.

I cross Leicester Square, dodging commuters and eager tourists. Continue on to Embankment, where I pull out my Oyster, tap the gate, scan the map, turn (as per instructed) and descend, stepping almost immediately onto a train. The doors close and for four stops I knit, the strip in my hands extending, bit by bit. Two weeks in, it has advanced from single brown square to autumn quilt, albeit a small one, housing a bunny rabbit, two carrots, a ladybird and a branch. Organic, in charge of me rather than me in charge of it, I have no idea what comes next: a flower, a moon, a person, a dog…? At the end, there will be a message; there always is. I am keen to read it. I used to check my horoscope and consult the cards, translating from a ‘how to’ book. I also analysed leaves, pulling shapes out of cups. But creativity is better: harder to decipher, perhaps, but more insightful and based in fact. My novels held messages about where I ought to go and where, as a result, I’ve travelled since. My poetry, too; warning and guiding, if only I had been open to seeing and obeying when it was relevant.

At Sloane Square, I finish my row and bag my needles. Then it’s up and off and through another barrier.

Outside it’s dry and quiet, a scattering of people queuing at a newsstand, several taxis speeding by, the odd bus… I take out my phone and check the time: if I’m quick, I can grab a coffee; I could use the pick-me-up as I’m feeling tired and the ‘no light’ does strange things to me. Fresh out of bed, I’m not yet sure what kind of a day today is, but if the last month and a half are anything to go by, it won’t be great; I don’t want to tempt fate by starting on a backfoot. It will also act as a shield against what’s to come if it turns into an ambush or becomes in any way uncomfortable: after Friday’s disaster, I’m on edge; I’m also nervous. In truth, I’d rather not be here but I made a commitment and a bad day or a bad day last week, isn’t enough of an excuse to deny myself a potential opportunity that, in the long run, I should appreciate. I’m dipping and dabbling, sampling and savouring, endeavouring to fix the broken and right the wrong. There will be mistakes. There will be disasters. There will be injuries and things that ache. But it is by being open and by doing, by absorbing and by experimenting, that we learn. Curl up small, attempt to shut it out, retreat and withdraw and reverse into relative silence: and it all stops: movement, action, improvement, progress, healing, happiness and health.

Coffee in hand slightly later than planned, I rush towards my destination; turning sharply onto a quiet street, slipping through a peeling gate, stumbling down mossy stairs. Nose running, coffee dripping from my coat, late: I’m flustered. Now I wish I’d carried on walking or bought camomile tea instead – it wouldn’t stain and there would be no frantic mopping up, later attempted washing, need to visit the dry cleaners… Cost aside: I’ve nothing else to wear in between. A dress and a cardigan; a skirt and a jumper, don’t quite suit. Even with gloves, a hat, a thick scarf, etc., I will be freezing.

But all of this is tissue paper and beside the point. What’s important is yesterday and how that made me feel and how I feel today, still, as a result: positive, alive, strong. Which, after everything I’ve endured, everything I’ve done, everything I’ve suffered and everything I’ve survived, is a miracle.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Bitter-sweet

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imageLast night it rained and it’s damp out this morning but milder too, which is a relief: I take my pleasures wherever I can find them these days, giving thanks for things I ordinarily would have dismissed. It’s strange how the weather, usually my top concern, is so far down my list and it has not escaped me how ironic this is.

It’s not that dissimilar to our house being trashed when we were employing someone to look after it; or us having to move because, despite having payed over the odds to secure a brand new luxury apartment from a top end agency, we have inadvertently ended up living above a nightclub in an environment that defies sleep; or my partner coming here to set up and attend important meetings and work one-to-one with clients and having to improvise on the go, meeting them in cafés and falling back upon his phone; or his phone (iPhone; unreliable, useless), important to his livelihood, slowly breaking, missing calls, cutting out and failing to ring, refusing, without headphones, to transport his voice; or his having his card cloned and used in Cambodia and his bank accidentally cancelling the wrong card because the clerk was also based somewhere like Cambodia and didn’t understand English beyond the scope of his script; or that leaving us high and dry until a new card could be posted and not having an address to post anything to; or looking forward to Christmas and going overboard with the decorating, only to realise that by the time we move decorating will be irrelevant as it will most likely be January; or wanting light in the mornings and evenings but not being able to open the blinds because there are always people talking, smoking, working outside; or eagerly anticipating cooking again after a break of three years only to discover the kitchen has also taken a vacation from which it is yet to return, limiting, in the meantime, all culinary endeavours to cold, ready-to-serve bits; or missing people who, upon seeing, you remember you needed to dismiss; or selecting and provisionally committing to courses – in psychology, in expressive therapy, in writing and in art – and not, because of everything that has been going on, keeps going on (relentlessly, endlessly), being able to afford it.

It continues, on and on… the duration endless. But I think the point is that there is so much happening and so much that is different from the intended plan, the direction of desired action, that the smaller things – like the temperature and the weather, the state of my nails and hair, the cold that won’t budge no matter how much I shove it – become insignificant. They’re just there, like traffic and people and cafés and shops. If you care to notice them: they are willing to share. But if you don’t, they won’t beg you for change like the people sleeping in doorways and corners every- which-where.

So Bad Luck is following me like a black cloud, like a stupid suitcase, and Irony, it’s BFF, is trailing close behind. And these things: the black luck, the cosmic and situational irony… are things I am aware of and things I am, for the most part, managing to fend off. It’s the flat that’s getting to me, as well as how not having a place to rest affects my partner’s mood. I am not a fan of Mr Unapproachable And Sharp-Edged and that’s who I am living with; along with Mr Mad As Hell, Mr Drop Dead Exhausted, Mr Snore The House Down, and Mr Drink Until I Fall Over. As for me: I’m guessing I’m Ms Cry too Much, Ms Trip And Stumble, Ms Emotionally Unstable; Ms Can’t Sleep, Can’t Think, and Ms Come And Save Me: Anyone, Everyone… Or perhaps things aren’t so bad and I am just exaggerating? All I know is that I was so tired last night, I got lost again; which consequentially so overwhelmed me that I retreated into the first safe place I found, nursing a coffee until my partner (for once a different kind of Mr – Distracted instead of Dangerous) came to my aid. That’s not me. That’s not normal behaviour. That’s not how I want or intend to operate: not now, not anymore, not again.

Since we’ve been here, it’s been bittersweet: one step forwards, two steps back; to the extent that we are both emotionally and physically drained. We look a mess, sound a mess, inhabit a mess and, like a magnet, draw additional mess towards us: lots of it, in fact. If mess were a good thing to have and collecting it advisable: we would be doing great. As it is, we are running to keep up and gradually breaking in the process.

If there is a God; if there is a Universe; if Fate is real and Karma deserved… do we not deserve a break? We are good people. We are trying to be even better. We care and we help and we share and we give. Have we not suffered sufficiently, experienced enough, to know and remember what suffering and disaster and heartbreak and trauma are all about? I would like to think so but I am not in charge of the natural order or the current state of things. So I sit and I wait and I listen and I learn and I try, as best as I am able, to endure it all with grace.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Wrong-side down

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imageI always think twice before I put pen to paper, but the thinking takes longer these days: my thoughts are scattered and scrambled; things that were there only moments earlier are want to up and disappear, scattering before I can catch them. If I am (as is often the case) interrupted, that’s the whole lot gone: so many ideas, so many sentences, so many paragraphs, poems and pieces of prose… If the rest of my life wasn’t already so tragic, so currently backwards and sideways, so wrong-side down, I might be upset. As it is, there is simply too much to think about to concern myself with the minutiae. Or perhaps it’s the minutiae that is distracting my concern from that which is important, draining vital elements from my essential self?

This morning, after a long weekend, after a difficult week, after a challenging Sunday, I felt determined to do something different and positive, setting my sights on the Barbican and the weekly craft group that meets there. It would fill the day, add some interaction to my morning, and hopefully recharge and inspire me. My batteries are so drained right now: even sitting is demanding; talking… now that’s an entirely different issue.

Monday’s air was crisp and cold but the sky was fair and the sun, although weak, was visible if you looked. I looked and I tried to also appreciate, in between blowing my nose, huddling inside my coat, and trying to work out how to juggle bags and a hot drink. Tea, I have discovered, is the quick-fix home remedy to freezing bones. Always chilly – sometimes solid, sometimes sludge – my bones and my body need all the help they can get. Come the end of the day, my cheeks are red, my nose is raw and my mouth is outside circumference chapped. I look (as you can imagine) delightful.

But I digress… Aesthetics are not the point.

I walked until I came to St. Paul’s and then, after consulting a map and checking my direction, walked some more, continuing until I came to the destination I had predetermined. Hidden, old, spread out: it took me by surprise. Without signposts, I doubt I ever would have found it. Such a strange location, such a disparate structure; so one bit here, one bit there… Quiet, too, almost ghostly; although I suspect it comes to life later on in the day.

Nosing around, I picked up leaflets and stepped in and out of buildings, exploring the cinema, the galleries, the theatres and the cafés… Then, curiosity satisfied, I made my way up to the library. Larger than expected, it curved around corners and snaked down stairs, ambling through archways, slip-sliding along walls. Split into sections: reference, research, fiction, non-fiction, science, history, geography, art, children, computers, reading and work… it was a bit like going backwards. Or maybe that’s just me being unused libraries, preferring to research on Google and download on Amazon? Libraries are of another generation: one that’s sepia-tinted and held behind glass.

Fascinated, I took in the piles of newspapers, stacks of magazines, books by their hundreds, seventies-style tables, school-style chairs, row of computers, people – sitting alone and in groups, “buggy park” and even the playroom. A bit like a maze, I had no idea where to look and what, in looking, I was looking for. Whatever it was, it was not keen to provide.

Ever practical, I decided to ask; was directed, sought and then found. Only… Well let’s just say that the walk wasn’t worth it and the reward was shy, although not in a benign way.

Another way of putting it would be to describe the woman that I met: the tightness of her tongue, the abruptness of her manner, the advance of her years, the few words she cast, the quality of her gaze, the lack of others in the environment and the neat row of knitted dolls that, filling two tables, kind of freaked me out. I fled, down to the ground floor where I hid on a seat at the back of the food hall, placating my wounded pride, my damaged delicate, my tender inner self, with treats. And even though it was cold and noisy, a bit dark, I stayed there for two hours, leaving only when visiting the conveniences required me to inconvenience my good self. That’s one thing I hate about London: you can’t abandon your seat without taking everything with you, which in rush hour which is every hour normally means returning to someone else in your chair or your drink having been cleared away. Mummy Bear does not like.

Another walk; another hour; another café; another day almost filled… because that’s the goal at the moment: using them up. Homeless; camping out in a temporary space with creature but without comfort: my main concern is getting through and surviving unscathed. I’m not sure how well I am doing on that front, but it is character building. Although if I get any stronger, I may become so impenetrable that the person I was will cease to exist entirely and never come back and the person I am temporarily will take over and become the person that I am from hereon in. Just now, I got lost down familiar streets – twisting and turning, stopping and stalling, turning tail and running away. My brain: tired, overwhelmed, pricked and pinched, cannot competently think.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

imageTo keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter, send me your email address.

• View or buy my work at my online portfolio
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