Joy, success, and victory feasts -
Don't build your house in that boisterous place.
Flowering meadows conceal fault lines there.
When the ground begins to shake and the Earth's crust begins to shift,
as it must,
your home will collapse in ruin.
Grief, lost hope, and bitter resignation -
Don't build your house in that desolate place.
The earth is hungry there. The ground reaches up to swallow you.
When the sun burns brightly,
as it must,
you will be unable to feel its warmth.
Find a place on higher ground.
Build your house and step outside.
You can see a victory parade with banners waving.
You can hear trumpets, drums, and cheering crowds.
Shift your gaze.
You can see a funeral procession,
the deceased borne aloft on a petal-strewn bier.
You can hear the cries of mourners, broken in their loss.
Curling tendrils of smoke rise up, brushing softly past your face.
luminous traces of Roman candles.
Hold the joyous in your prayers.
incense, fragrant and holy.
Hold the grieving in your prayers.
The story of how Joe and April did something in their 32nd year of marriage.
Me: Married people are supposed to do things together. We don't do many things together.
Joe: Not true. We hang out, watch movies, eat dinner....
Me: That doesn't count. Of course we run into each other at home. Of course we end up watching Netflix together. I'm talking about...you know.... "things", activities....
Joe: I offered to get you your own set of clubs...
Me: We're not having that conversation again. No golf. It's an evil pastime, designed to elicit murderous rage. I suppose you are still dead set against going to yoga with me?
Joe: Not happening.
Me: Well then. Fuck it. We'll continue as we are.
Two weeks later:
Joe: So, I found a thing we could do...
Me: (suspicious, doubtful...) Really...? It's not a golf thing?
Joe: Nope. We can go white water rafting in Squamish. What do you think?
Me: (totally blindsided- wasn't expecting adventure-type activity...) Uh....yes... That sounds like fun. I definitely want to go white water rafting.
The day of the rafting trip:
Me: So, this is an actual "thing" couples do together. We're going to do a real thing.
Joe: I know. We're doing a thing, and we're being adventurous.
On the bus trip to the river:
Me: So, do I look like a fat sausage in my wetsuit? For real?
Joe: No. You actually look pretty good.
Me: Well, it definitely feels good; I like the way it's compressing everything. I wouldn't mind wearing this sort of thing all the time. (I spend the next few minutes trying to come up with a career that would allow me to wear a wetsuit to work)
At the river, listening to the guide give the safety talk:
What I hear as the guide explains the simple and logical safety rules: " Do what we tell you, and you might make it out alive. But probably, you are going to die on this river. April Ruttle, this means YOU.”
On the river:
Guide: Who wants to jump out of the raft and go for a swim?
Me: I do! (I’ve lost any fear I had previously, and I want to have the fullest possible rafting experience, so I slide overboard and grab hold of the "Oh Shit!" rope on the outside of the raft. I know I should keep my legs and feet up. I should relax and lie on my back, with my feet facing downstream. I try to do that, but the Elaho river wants me to keep my legs and feet down so that it can snag me on an underwater branch and then drown me. Water is continually splashing into my nose and mouth. I must look panicked and semi-drowned already because a big strong kid hoists me back into the raft - demonstrating perfect safety/rescue technique. I clamber up, struggling for a moment like a beached walrus, then regain my paddling position. Joe is smiling calmly from his seat on the opposite side of the raft.)
We go through rapids with names like: "Surf City", "Mike Tyson", and "The Steamroller". It is glorious. It is raining and the clouds are creeping around close to the river, draped over the trees on the mountains all around us. Big bald eagles swoop, glide and settle onto rocky islets as we float by. The wetsuits keep us perfectly comfortable. The guides are skilled, the river and the mountains all around us are so beautiful. This is a delicious way to welcome autumn.
In the car, on the way back home after eating delectable Mexican food at Mag's99 Fried Chicken and Mexican Cantina:
Me: That was incredible. It was so much fun. We did a thing.
Joe: Yep. We did a thing.
-by April Ruttle
When I was a little kid, my mother taught me how to sew, knit, crochet, and play chess. I took to sewing, and have loved fabric, patterns, and making things ever since. The crochet lessons somehow didn’t take. Like chess, no matter how many times mom re-taught the skill, I never could retain it. Knitting though...the knitting stayed with me. She taught me English knitting, where the working yarn is held in the right hand. This makes me a “thrower” because the movement of the yarn over the needle with each new stitch is like throwing. European style knitters (or “pickers”) hold the the working yarn in the left hand, picking up the yarn for each new stitch, and pulling it through with the right-hand needle. My mom taught herself both styles, and now uses the European method, which many knitters consider the smoother, more efficient technique.
When I was first learning, I was easily frustrated, prone to ripping out stitches and tossing away the needles, yarn and all, in disgust, when I wasn’t instantly able to produce perfect rows. I expected to be able to churn out gorgeous, fair isle sweaters, and here I was, finding a well-knitted square beyond my capabilities. I particularly remember how much I was bothered by the idea of achieving the correct “tension” in my knitting. I would practice wrapping the working yarn around my right index and little fingers, and no sooner would I begin knitting than my hands would cramp up into a painful claw-like rigor, and I would have to put the needles down. In addition to my problem with the concept of tension - or “gauge” in Canadian parlance - I remember being outraged at the notion of the “gauge swatch”.
In knitting, you are creating a piece of fabric. Just as if you were weaving fibres together on a loom, you are producing a flat (or tubular) piece of fabric from which useful and beautiful things can be made. Knitting patterns provide the knitter with information as to the “gauge”, or stitch-per-inch, and rows-per-inch, size of the pattern. Without this, it would be difficult-to-impossible to achieve the correct size in the finished product. So, what determines the gauge of the knitted fabric? Three variables factor into the equation: the size (diameter) of the knitting needles, the weight (or thickness) of the yarn being used, and the particular way each individual knitter handles the yarn as she knits. Some knitters pull their stitches tight, and others have a gentler, looser touch as they work the yarn.
Each time you begin a new project, you need to find a balance between the three variables - needle size, yarn, and your own hands - that will produce a piece of fabric with body and a little stretch. Too tight, and you’ll end up with a rigid, unbending fabric, that would be torture for someone to wear. Too loose, and you’ll end up with an airy, floppy fabric that won’t keep the cold out. Of course, part of this equation has to do with your intended goal - sometimes you want
airy and floppy, and sometimes you want tight and rigid.
The gauge swatch is a trial-run of the prescribed materials for a particular pattern. A pattern will tell you what weight of yarn, and what size of needle to use. That other variable, however, - the particular way that your hands work and hold the yarn - can only be discovered in the act of knitting itself. So, before launching into a new project, a prudent knitter will do up a gauge swatch - a piece of fabric large enough to show whether the stitches-per-inch, and rows-per-inch, are the same as the pattern intends them to be. Based on that swatch, you make adjustments in needle size or, carry on with the project.
As a younger woman, I could not, or would not, accept the wisdom and the necessity of the gauge swatch. I had no time to poke around, putting effort into knitting that wasn’t part of the finished product. For many years, this aversion to what I thought of as wasted effort, coupled with the painful result of my attempts to control the “tension” of the yarn, kept me away from knitting altogether. I still found myself admiring beautiful yarns, and imagining the things I could make with them, but I gave up the idea of actually knitting.
Here’s what happened as I got older: I found myself in dire need of a form of creative expression. I needed to be making things with my hands. Having been without a sewing machine for a few years, I wasn’t set up for my usual creative outlet. I picked up some knitting needles and some yarn, and tentatively re-embarked on the craft my mom taught me as a child. It was gratifying to find that the muscle-memory of those early lessons had stayed with me. I had internalized the basic movements of English-style knitting, and it took no time for me to get going; knit stitch, purl stitch, casting-on, casting-off, yarn-overs, increases, decreases….I was doing it.
What made knitting possible as something more than a half-hour exercise in frustration, though, had a lot to do with what I wasn’t doing. I stopped focusing on only the finished project, and became more interested in simply forming the stitches, creating consistent rows. Crucially for me - I also let go of my death-grip on the needles and the yarn. I experimented with allowing myself to work the yarn and hold the needles in whatever way came naturally to me. I gave up winding the yarn around my fingers, and just “grabbed and threw” each time I created a new stitch.
The result has been, that knitting doesn’t hurt anymore. My hands don’t end up pinched into painful claws, and I can enjoy the rhythm of creating the stitches. I found out that I actually have my own, unique rhythm as a knitter. My particular way of working and holding the yarn is fine. It’s not better or worse than any other way, and things work out fine when I relax and let the knitting happen the way it happens in my hands. For me, this has been one in a series of life-lessons on the nature of trust, or, more specifically, on the necessity of trusting myself. One more thing: I always do a gauge swatch before starting a new project.
April Ruttle 2017
You know the fable of the tortoise and the hare? The hare and the tortoise decide to run a race against each other. The hare is ebullient, confident that he can easily outrun the tortoise. The race begins, and, the hare, shoots away from the starting line, far distancing himself from the stolid tortoise, who has barely moved from the starting line. Here’s the thing….the hare, in his excitement (and hubris) decides to take a series of detours, confident that he can easily afford the extra distance and still handily win the race. You know what happens here, right? The hare gets so caught up in his wanderings away from the actual race route, that, having lost track of the time, he arrives only to see the tortoise, still moving slowly but steadily, cross the finish line, and win the race.
We, whose parents read this fable to us as children, learned that “slow and steady wins the race”. Thing is, not all of us were able to internalize the lesson. For whatever reason - and there are many reasons - we either didn’t understand the concept of “slow and steady”, or, our temperament - our natures - meant that we were permanently set on “hare” and could scarcely access the tortoise approach.
I’m one of these. Cursed or blessed as I am with a depressive nature, you might think that slow and ‘tortoisey’ would come easily to me, but you’d be wrong. Like the hare, I often wander away from the track I’m supposed to be on. Here’s why: sadness, and often a kind of numbness beyond emotion, pull me deep down into pain, or if the descent moves deeper still, into a blank sort of hell-realm. When I am able to resurface from these dark depths, I am keenly aware of beauty, and my heart is bursting with love, curiosity, ambition, and joy. I think it’s the contrast that’s important here; like physical pain, emotional/psychological pain can be so utterly crushing, that, when you are granted a respite - however brief - you open your eyes and take in as much of the goodness and the life around you as you possibly can. You absolutely savour the inrush of non-pain or non-numbness, and you revel in feeling and being alive.
For me, this way of living has been sort of like drowning over and over again. When I am able to come up for air, I need to do all of my living - all of my joy, ambition - everything - from basic functioning, to nurturing relationships, to setting goals, and fulfilling ambitions, has to be played out quickly, until the oxygen runs out and I get pulled down again. This has kept me from mastering the art of consistency, which the tortoise employs so successfully in his race with the hare.
What does “slow and steady” mean, though? For the longest time, I figured the only lesson of the tortoise was this: set a goal, and work your way, step-by-step, through all of the tasks that will eventually bring you across the finish line. Don’t allow yourself to be distracted or pulled away from your self-assigned goal, and you’ll do well. Now, though, I understand the lesson of this fable somewhat differently. I live a life in which I know I will be pulled away from the race - often with little or no warning - and yet, I’m still alive. I have managed to find and sustain love in my life - with my husband, my sons, my mother, my siblings, my friends, and my animals. I find consolation in small things: the softness of my dog’s fur, the paperback I’ve read 5 times, and will read again, sipping a cup of tea while I watch the rain outside... and so, I fight my way up, again and again, from the watery depths of sadness, terror, and no-feeling - back into the light and the fresh air of the living. For me, this repeated effort to resurface is the essence of tortoise wisdom - this is how I practice consistency. I hold on to the small seeds of love, joy, and curiosity, carrying them with me as I descend into dark, airless places. Perhaps these small seeds provide the buoyancy that eventually draws me up out of the dark and into the light.
Each one of us is staggeringly unique - a one-time-only biochemical + spiritual equation. We can all benefit, though, from the tortoise’s example. The vicissitudes of life will likely make a “hare” of you - and marvelous things can be found off the main road - just take care to also have a turtle in the race; Find what sustains you - what makes you willing and able to open your eyes to each new day, and hold on to it. It may surprise you to find that the things keeping you afloat, day after day, are very small. That’s ok. Good things really do come in small packages.
Oh joyful beginning!
A population diverse
all should prosper,
I looked on
unable to adapt-
gently gave up
a stable community
A princely pair,
speckled and shimmering,
How graceful their
delicate opaline beauty
of their scales!
With rugged nip
the princely pair
destruction of all
who, for so long
had swum with
and eaten of
ripped from heads.
the grim round
net - scoop - flush
a princely pair
speckled and shimmering
Is a certain spark
from their wanderings-
on the flesh
of their fellows,
are left to
inhabit the bleak aquascape
A. Ruttle 2017