Back from the beach, where I had the pleasure of watching dolphins swim in the quiet Southern Georgia ocean waters and the displeasure of talking really loud to my grandfather (who my grandmother states is “deaf as a post”). It was wonderful to spend time with them (I’m of the frame of mind that grandparents are magical) and just talk.
My grandfather delights in telling stories of growing up in rural Georgia, starting out as a young lawyer in a segregated South and later on becoming a judge. As a child, I was always amazed as we would drive around their town and everyone would stop and wave at him like he was royalty. Later on, I would go and watch him hold court, completely weirded out by the fact that my grandfather (the kindest sweetest man) held the power to put people in jail. He still works some of the time, and I’m amazed at his ability to make fair and just judgements regarding any possible situation.
My grandmother and I have graduated from just talking about school or how I had my hair cut. And it is secretly one of the best gifts I have ever received from knitting. Yesterday we drove around town, took a walk down the pier, cooed over the variety of yarns available in the local stitching shop. You see, I don’t knit because it’s trendy or even because I’m fascinated with historical methods of needlecraft. I knit because I can finally talk to my grandmother. After our afternoon out, she sat next to me on the couch and showed me how to deftly wield a crochet hook, and it was so simple and beautiful that it almost brought tears to my eyes.
In the stitching shop, I was fascinated at her fascination with the way that knitting has gained popularity over the past few years. She kept eyeing the yarns and books and pointing interesting things out to me. Although I was ogling all the beautiful craft supplies around me, I kept getting distracted thinking about how very glad I am that something as simple as knitting as increased my vocabulary with my grandmother tenfold.
Often people say something to me along the lines of “I don’t have the patience to knit/embroider/craft,” “It’s too hard,” “I could never do that.” To which I always reply, “Of course you can, it’s easy.” But what I keep forgetting is that sometimes there’s a reason why we learn to certain lessons when.
Every morning I read a passage from Everday Mind: 366 Reflections on the Buddhist Path. The one that keeps popping in my head is from February 8 by Pema Chodron,
We try so hard to hang on to the teachings and “get it,” but actually the truth sinks in like rain into very hard earth. The rain is very gentle, and we soften up slowly at our own speed. But when that happens, something has fundamentally changed in us. That hard earth has softened. It doesn’t seem to happen by trying to get it or capture it. It happens by letting go; it happens by relaxing your mind, and it happens by the aspiration and the longing to want to communicate with yourself and others. Each of us finds our own way.
On my drive down to Georgia after writing the previous post, I was reminded of this. And how sometimes it’s okay not to officially have a Plan B. As long as you remember to be aware of where you are, what you’re doing and what’s around you. Because sometimes the most amazing options uncover themselves. But only when you’re ready.
