I sit and knit as the world seems to come unraveled. Brexit, France, Turkey. And the Republican National Convention starts Monday in Cleveland. I have great wariness; the world seems ripe for change, but the change needs to be a coming together, not a tearing apart.
I don’t talk much about politics in this blog, but threat seems thick in the atmosphere and permeates even my writing. All I can do (other than vote and make my voice heard) is MAKE THINGS, GIVE. I made hot fudge sauce and gave some to the campground hosts, and some to my neighbor. I make meals for people. (Another round of pizza dough this afternoon, in search of excellence!) I make art to please and to puzzle and to ask and to dance visually. I write to explore, to look at alternatives. I knit to comfort (giving scarves, hats to those in need; socks to those I love.)
I’m writing a story, a series of stories, about an alternative place, alternative feelings, another choice, an antidote to the dystopic fiction that seems so dominant right now.
It’s not enough. I must try to do more.