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My most important stranger

2/18/2020

My father disappeared from my, my sister's and my mom's life more than 30 years ago. I never knew where he went, or why he left. The letter I wrote to him after my grandmother (his mother) passed away, in which I invited him to contact me, went unanswered; he sent me roses on my twenty-first birthday and the card simply said, "From W.D.P".

My sister Betsey, me, and our father Bill, circa 1986.

He died this week, and I have been surprised at the depth of my grief for someone who is, in all the most important ways, a complete stranger. His death showed me, though, that even after all these years and in defiance any evidence, I'd had hope. And then suddenly, there were no more chances. That's where the grief comes from, I think; two deaths, double mourning: my father and my hope.

When I learned he was dying, I tried to decide how I wanted to say goodbye. I ended up writing him a letter that he will never read. It's in a stamped envelope in my bag, but there's no address on it, because I didn't know where he lived. He died without knowing I had a final message for him.

I don't know precisely why I want to share this letter. It's a letter to the most important stranger I'll never know, a paradox that makes sharing this deeply personal message seem appropriate. It's for no one now, its mark is gone, so I'm making it public domain. It’s for a stranger, an unknown, interchangeable human, someone who could be anyone at all, and so-- maybe it’s for everyone. For you.

It’s about forgiveness. I’m trying it out.

I don't believe in heaven, but the idea that people could maybe read this and think about it and those thoughts could float upwards and find their way to him, and whatever he is now could know that I am here and I am OK...that idea comforts me.

Dear Bill,

I forgive you. If you are unable to take anything else away from this letter, know that I forgive you.

I’m writing this to you as I sit in a coffee shop. It’s 17 degrees outside and the Merrimack river is running fast with ice floes, which I can watch from the window here. I’m not sure why I’m telling you this, except that it seems important somehow.

This is a good-bye, which historically I’ve been terrible at. I’m the person who slips out before the handshakes and hugs start because I don’t like good-byes. This one is important, though, for me. I know I can’t get it right; what does “right” even mean in this circumstance? Maybe it just means that I say something and you hear it, which would maybe be the most fitting first and last interaction for you and me.

I have to trust that you did your best, and that’s why you’ve chosen to live your life as you have. What I wish for both of us is peace. I hope your passing from this life, whether it’s tomorrow or a decade from now, is peaceful, and that you have moments of joy to reflect upon and remember.

I have a lot of joy in my life. I’m married to a guy I love and respect; I have a great circle of people who love and support me, and whom I love; I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished so far, personally and professionally. I have no regrets, and I think that by and large I’m doing a pretty good job finding my way.

What I’m trying to say is, it’s OK that you chose the path you did. I’m going to be fine, and I forgive you.

Goodbye,

-Julianna

The greatness to be found in knitting and failure

1/17/2020

I was broken when I left my job in 2015. The leaving itself didn’t break me—I’ve never regretted my decision to quit, not for a moment—but my self-confidence did not follow me out.

In the months preceding my departure, some vital piece of my work persona had crumpled. It’s not important what caused the destruction, only that it happened; I’d had no idea I was so fragile, which might have been the most disconcerting part.

I was elated yet shocked; I’d ostensibly left to more thoroughly pursue my dreams, but I was utterly bewildered. The launch of this new chapter in my life was fueled equally by part of “My time is NOW!” and “My HEART is IN PIECES!”

This is the story of how WaterMullen and, oddly enough, knitting stitched me back together.

I took up knitting in 2017 because I wanted to spend less time staring at screens. On a snowy December Sunday, I looked up “knitting for beginners” on YouTube (I'm aware of the irony), borrowed some yarn and needles from my mother-in-law, and learned the basics.

I’d bring my fledgling knitting with me lots of places—waiting rooms, on the train, things like that-- and people would sometimes ask how long I’d been doing it, and I’d say a few months, and they would ask how I learned, and I'd say YouTube, and they'd be surprised. The surprise was surprising. Then I’d have to unravel whatever I’d been working on because I’d messed up again, and their eyes would grow big, and they’d ask how many times had I started over? I’d think about it as I pulled apart fistfuls of yarn and say a number that was usually between five and twenty. I think my record was redoing something 22 times. They’d make a face that broadcast how ridiculous they found my answer and I’d tell them that in addition to keeping me from aimlessly playing on my phone, knitting was really helping me get better at being bad.

2018 was the year that sad, crumpled me from 2015 was diagnosed with a terminal case of sucked at failing. As soon as I made a mistake, or perceived something I’d done as a mistake, or been told something I did was a mistake because I didn’t know how to do something or because I didn’t know everything, I died. Not knowing and mistakes were proof that I was worthless, and worthless things go in the garbage, and the garbage is a lonely, loveless place where I absolutely deserved to be.

Knitting can be tricky. It’s easy to mess up, especially when you’re first learning. Knitting is forgiving, though, too; starting over is always an option. Yarn is very patient as well. It doesn’t leap up to strangle you when you drop a stitch. A knit creation can be riddled with mistakes and still be used, worn, loved. Someone is always on YouTube waiting to show you how to do something, and they’ll repeat the lesson as many times as you want, without censure or side-eye.

About eighteen months into my life as a consultant, I took a job that was a big reach for me. I’d known it would be a challenge when I chased the project, though I was too foolish to really understand the breadth of the leap I was taking.

I’ll be honest: there were several distressingly long chunks of time where I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I had to use tools I’d never used before to create something I didn’t have much experience crafting, Thankfully, I had the iron embrace of a contract pulling me towards action. I had to figure that shit out.

And the shit did in fact get figured. It took me hours upon hours upon hours that I wouldn’t bill for because no client should have to pay for such depth of ignorance. But I figured it out! Through a painstaking process of research, trial and error, video tutorials, answer boards and stupid questions, eventually I got it. There was no cry of “Eureka!” It was the opposite, like a drawn out, pained groan leaking from the mouth of a dull-eyed tortoise.

But I did it! My deliverables were polished, professional, and on time; the massive struggle that birthed them hadn’t left any scars on the final product.

Careworn, sad, broken 2015 me looked up from the scarf she was knitting and said, “Wait, what?”

I’m not sure which came first, the knitting or the reach. They happened close enough together that it’s hard for me to untangle effect from cause. Moreover, I didn’t realize the extent of the transformation until maybe a year after the project. I’d learned something ridiculously important, maybe the literal most important lesson ever: I can figure it out. It will take time and a (sometimes seemingly endless) series of mistakes, but I am capable. Curiosity—in fact, reveling in not knowing-- and the pursuit of its satisfaction will keep bread on my table.

People were surprised at self-taught knitting and the unraveling because the older we get, the harder it is to not be good at things. It’s very uncomfortable. We spend our lives in pursuit of mastery, running away from looking like we don’t know what we’re doing. I am trying hard to be a proud fool. Now that knitting is in my arsenal, it’s time for me to choose a new thing I can fail at repeatedly, so I can continue to push the envelope of being unsuccessful.

I'm so relieved to know that I'll figure it out.

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The greatness to be found in knitting and failure

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