What We Do Not Choose


I wore my Frog Toggs but the rain had already abated by the time I sat down to knit.  A lot of work trucks went by, my favorite was the one with the plastic iguana strapped on the back bumper.  Two latino men in the front seat stared out at me with blank expressions.  What would compel a woman to sit on a bench and knit a rope across the street?  I’m sure it is baffling…

Today I met a lovely person who is struggling with anxiety attacks.  I decided to just be honest and share the multifaceted funk I’ve been in this past month–anxiety, hopelessness, crying for no reason.  I’ve felt out of control, exhausted with all my attempts to recover, the shame of knowing that my life is wonderful and I am surrounded with beauty so why can’t I snap out of it?  It was strangely steadying to speak with each other, to know that we are not alone, to compare notes on what we are doing to find our footing again.  It almost made this past month feel worthwhile.  There is something about affliction that makes me ashamed, makes me want to hide…How wonderfully strange to do the opposite, to heal through one’s wounds, a paradox.

The FunkyTown bus has moved on, and I hope this is a good omen.  On the trek home, I pick scotch broom, ferns, bluebells, red clover, and grass for a wildflower bouquet.


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