I have found that one of the great gifts of grief is a true undoing of self. Stitch by stitch grief gently pulls me apart and I am left undone, completely exposed but oddly relieved. For this unraveling feels a little bit like torture, but a lot more like freedom. And just when I try to muster the will to knit and pearl myself back together, grief comes and drops a stitch, reminding me that this “so put together” sweater will fade with one rinse cycle in the wash. It will last a season or two at most, but never sustain in the end. Grief takes the wooden needles from my hands, gently sets them down and encourages me to embrace the pile of yarn that I am. And when my critical voice begins its refrain of, “Oh, I am such a mess,” and "What will others think?", I don't even hear its tune, for freedom rings louder in my ears.