For a knitter, I have a real shortage of knit hats.

It's not just that I don't have as many hats as I would like (or would like to give as gifts). It's that there are so many hats I would like to make — fabulous, intricate patterns that I see on sites like Ravelry and bookmark for later.

I could be frustrated by my lack of hats and my lack of progress toward the hats I want. But I realized early on in my knitting career that the whole fun of the hobby was knowing that there were always beautiful things I could be making and still more beautiful things to make. It would never end, and I would never be finished.

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When I left college, I thought I was going to be a performing songwriter.

I recorded an album of original songs that year.

I recorded another album of original songs eighteen months later.

And since then...nothing.

I've written songs, but I've never gotten back to the mindset I once had in which writing and recording songs meant everything.

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I’ve played so much guitar in the last 24 hours that I have blisters on the fingertips of my left hand.

Playing feels totally different than it used to, and not just because I’ve lost all my calluses. What’s changed is that I no longer have the weight of my ego to contend with.

Back when I was trying to make a career out of music, it was important to me to be good. What’s more, I needed to have a distinct identity as a performing musician—a brand. I got so distracted by trying to figure out who I wanted to be as a musician that I stopped playing for the joy of it.

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As we motored the sailboat gently into its slip at sunset, there was bedlam on the dock.

A couple dozen people were hanging out there and upon a large sailboat adjacent, eating and drinking—but mostly drinking. “Welcome to Laurie’s birthday!” they shouted.

It took awhile for someone to come over and grab our lines to help us tie off (something we didn’t strictly need but is always nice to have).

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This week, I’ve been having a little trouble concentrating.

I’ve been going through the familiar rituals of my daily life — the enhanced, extra-hygge version in which I keep things tidy, light candles, and make lovely cups of tea to ward off pandemic-related anxiety or ennui. It helps to an extent, but it feels like I’m back in May, when I would get to the end of the day and wonder where it went and why nothing seemed to get done. What is this? Where did it come from?

And the answer comes back: This is grief.

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