Creating Helps Me Grieve

I've been realizing for a while that acts of creation help me grieve.

The summer after Ronen died (which also was the first summer of COVID when everything was shut down), I got really into gardening. If I'm honest with myself about why, I realize it's because I felt like in my pregnancy I created something flawed... and allowing myself to partner with God in growing fruits and vegetables and flowers felt like magical restoration.

During Ronen's time in the hospital, I crocheted a blanket for him. He never used it; I finished it after he died. The blanket stays on the sofa in my office, its beautiful purple, blue, and green stitches reminding me that once Ronen was once actually here.

And when I was pregnant with N, as I was feeling like I needed to prepare for her birth in a very particular way, differently from the other two when I intentionally did not prepare to bring the child home, I crocheted a blanket for her too, full of bright rainbow colors. I'm glad she loves it and it has its place on her bed.

Today, as D and J are at camp, I'm painting. I haven't really painted in a long time, and I'm really just following watercolor tutorials. I started watercoloring before they left because it settled my brain between bouts of packing. But before they left, D and J painted with me and since they've left I've settled into regular water coloring. Mostly on postcards so that I can mail them to the children at camp.

The more I understand myself as neurodivergent, the more I understand that the various creative projects I have taken on through the years are a reflection of my need for novelty and a way for me to calm my anxieties. I have dabbled in creative arts for a long time, but my need for tactile creative pursuits have become much louder in the last nearly six (!) years.

No particular conclusion for today... just an observation. Back to the drawing board.