Recently, I learnt to crochet, and by ‘learning’ I really mean that I know three basic stitches that enable me to create a passable ‘granny square’. I’ve come into contact with a lady who had an idea which has grown into a group of women, and one man, who get together to create blankets for those who are currently homeless or marginalised in some way.
I can do that, I thought. When I’m sitting around at night, procrastinating about writing my book, or folding the washing, I can crochet and do something good for others.
Easy, right? Mmmm, not so much.
So I sit in my warm house, next to the fire, a glass of wine or coffee at my elbow, either the tv or music quietly going in the background, chatting to any one of my family who might be in the room at the time and the irony is not lost on me.
I am sitting in luxury compared to those who I am crocheting for. I found it much easier to enjoy my wine, the fire and my home before I started crocheting. Now, I sit there, sometimes on the verge of tears, knowing that others, right in my city, are sitting under a bridge with a piece of cardboard for warmth, or huddled in an alley, their meagre possessions clutched tightly for fear of being stolen.
Now, I know that me selling everything just because others have less is not actually going to help them. I know that crocheting a blanket will eventually do some good. I know that writing articles and speaking to groups about Destiny Rescue has an impact and is needed. I know that giving when we see need makes a difference.
But sometimes, it just doesn’t seem enough, and I am overcome with sadness, guilt, sorrow.
I know all the trite answers. Sometimes, increasingly more often, they just don’t cut it. And I want to scream at the sheer unfairness of life.
When we talk about being content with what we have, we usually mean how little we have.
The opposite is true too.
Learning to be content with how much we have, how much has been gifted to us, is a hard lesson too.
And I am nowhere near mastering it.