The air has been heavy. Heavy with poignance. It's been making it much too easy to float away, and far too difficult to breathe in. So I hole up in a room with endless spools of yarn and the comforting sound of two needles clicking away. The meditative nature of a repetitive exercise is grossly underestimated. Nimble fingers in constant motion, winding strands of wool in intricate patterns, creating more of something new with each move. Knit, purl. Knit, purl. Knit, purl. Weave it all in. The sounds, the thoughts, the dissonance. Bind it in the knots and weave it in, create something pretty, and let that be it. Years worth of grief will hang in your cupboard someday. 

And whenever too much is wrong with the world, I will knit.