“It’s an old-fashioned cure for restlessness, my dear, in
case you ever need it. Remember that it has been successful for hundreds of
women. I’m no fool, am I? Well, I haven’t traveled without my tapestry since my
girlhood, and you should see the splendid suites of furniture covered by my
handiwork, testimonials to worries of all sorts. Whenever I have felt nervous,
vaguely dissatisfied, irresolute, or frankly wretched, I have sat by myself.
Each embroidery contains hundreds of stitches which are cross-stones of sorrow,
the death beds of boredom. In many a gaily flowered seat, my happiness lies
buried. People spend time and money being exorcised; psychoanalyzed, they call
it, seeking relief for body and soul. I think that a good long mechanical task
that requires a minimum of attention, and the soothing action of the hand as it
dips over and under the canvas, is the very best means of pinning down our
weaknesses and chloroforming them. Stitch the horrors down, my dear, and they
shan’t return to plaque you; they are killed by the stab of the needle. Of
course, during peaceful intervals, I have laid my work away for months, but
when I need it, there it is, as convenient as a box of aspirins against a
cold.”
—Anne Green, 16 Rue Corta Bert
I found this quote in an old Peg Bracken book. I didn’t note which one
when I copied it down in my writer’s journal and I’ve read them all. (I
absolutely love Peg Bracken, even though she was a bit before my time (the 60’s)
I was a teenager reading cookbooks/humor/housekeeping books. Needless to say, I
was a strange teenager.) The sentiment in the quote spoke to me. More so in
recent years, but down through the years the act of handwork or piecework, as
they called it, has soothed me, paced me through worrisome nights of childhood
illnesses, teen drivers, those many nights of a railroad widow/young mother and
later—now, as a patient and a caregiver.
Doilies, afghans, hot pads, tea towels, samplers accent my
home. Countless hours of handwork, but somehow, each item is more. A legacy,
too, of my life, my mother, her mother, my best friend, Connie’s mother, of
that generation and earlier generations. Of time spent in meditation, so to
speak.
I can’t pass by the
handiwork at antique shops or fairs. I stop, inspect, marvel, covet. I know the
work involved because I’ve done it, but more, I know the soul, hope and sorrow
‘pinned’ to each piece. There is history stitched along with skill and time. I
love the vintage look but more, I love the story behind each piece, even
without knowing the exact story details.
I know the story of my own handwork, and part of the story behind my
mother’s, her mother’s, Connie’s mother.
I didn’t start out loving the hobby. I didn’t have the patience
and maybe, that’s the thing with needlework. It takes patience. To learn the
skill, execute the patterns, to finish the project. It doesn’t happen overnight
but it teaches principles that I’ve used in every part of my life, but never so
much as in my writing.
