Autumn’s on its way in, and I can tell I’m in a state of transition. After spending most of the summer traveling–first to Bolivia and then to Alaska–I returned home to the devastating loss of my friend Solveig, at which point everything in my life came to a sudden stop. I haven’t overcome my grief. I don’t really know how to move forward. But the world goes on.

A few weeks ago, my friend Max hosted a gathering in St. Paul to remember Solveig, so I flew in for the event, seeing college friends who hadn’t been able to attend her memorial in Colorado. It was a lovely evening, highlighted by an a cappella sing-along of “Beautiful Savior.” No one minded my wobbly soprano efforts, since most of us were crying.

As we left Max’s house that night, the super moon was blood red, midway through its eclipse. We gazed up at the sky, completely awestruck, realizing it was a good day to say goodbye.

The next morning I went to the Lake of the Isles, borrowed a sleek bicycle that weighed less than my laptop, and cycled along the Grand Rounds Scenic Byway.

We passed Minnehaha Falls, shown above, which is not only the site of my wedding but also plays a significant role in Emma Bull’s award-winning novel War for the Oaks.

I hadn’t visited Minnehaha Falls since my wedding day. Stiff from twenty miles of cycling, I waddled under the bridal pergola near the falls, then joined the rest of my friends next to the waterfall, where I saw something that delighted me: a signpost wrapped in brightly colored yarn.

I recognized it at once as a knit-bombing, and I immediately felt encouraged. Solveig loved to knit-bomb public spaces, and her most memorable textile installation–a full-sized knitted TARDIS she made with her friend Helen–was displayed at her memorial service.

I flew home and put on a dusty pink cardigan–one of over eighty sweaters that Solveig made–and I resolved to continue making things, to continue making a difference.

We must try to create something lasting in this world, whether it’s a book, a cardigan, or a memory of being loved. It doesn’t matter if we’re talented or not. It doesn’t matter if our contributions seem to go unnoticed. We have to make an effort.