Grief Closet

Within a few weeks of my miscarriage, I made the executive decision that, as I was tired of the relentless heartache swinging out of nowhere and knocking me flat over and over, I would therefore pull the proverbial plug on it. I put my grief in a closet of my heart and shut the door. The image that comes to mind is my "seasonal" closet, which is piled floor to ceiling. You're usually in danger of getting whacked by falling items if you open the door too recklessly. It was great. I was able to function without feeling socked in the gut by the memory of my sweet hopes, because I simply shut the door. Any time I would feel the sorrow rise, I would slam the door again and hold it tight. Pretty soon I had a lovely barricade of new hobbies, things like cross-stitch and latch hook, holding the door to my grief closet shut. I especially favored latch hook because it gave me a level of control that was off the charts. If I simply followed the pattern, using the pre-cut yarns provided by the kit manufacturer, I got a beautiful completed rug. It was a no-fail proposition, unlike daily life in the real world. Latch hook patterns and kits depict the things in life that offer joy and comfort. Unlike books or movies, latch hook rugs never portray the unseemly, uncertain side of life. You'll never see a pattern of a person in a shrink's office, head in hand, tears staining the carpet. I made a rug depicting a butterfly landing on hibiscus blooms and one of a row of cats lined up and looking out of a window. These diversions worked seamlessly for a period of months. In due time, however, the act of pursuing them maniacally night and day became empty, and the same websites that had provided the comfort of escape into worlds of beautifully colored yarn and embroidery floss, cuddly animals, and steaming teacups felt hostile and dead. It was time to turn back to God for fulfillment and, rather than escape, healing.