I grew up surrounded by women whose hands were never idle
when they watched TV or ‘relaxed.’ My mother was a wonderful knitter and sewer,
my best friend’s mom crocheted and embroidered, my grandma did every kind of
handwork: knitting, crocheting, embroidery, cutwork, cross-stitch. Needlework
was required for the girls in our church starting at the age of twelve. I was
pitiful at it, too impatient and then, too ashamed by my finished project, a
pitiful mess, from the stamped cross-stitch sampler to the crocheted purse to
the knitted covered hanger, to want to ever try again.
Later, when my friends and I started filling hope chests I
revisited needlework. I’d learned patience, at least a bit. (I’ve since
learned, patience is an ongoing skill a person never completely masters.) It
was my brilliant idea that for birthdays and Christmas we’d exchange things for
our hope chests, preferably homemade. And it was a great idea, at least, I’ve
thought so over the years.
What a wonderful thing that all these years later I still
have tea towels and dresser scarves embroidered by childhood friends (some of
which I haven’t seen since) as I began married life. I still have stacks of tea
towels and pillowcases, so I never truly forget these wonderful friends. And it
got us to learn handwork and figure out that hand-made things are the best
gifts.
About this same time, I registered for a homemaking arts
class for my senior year of high school. At the time I had no idea how much
this class would help me find a safe, soft place to land every day in a hellish
year. That year was profound for me. I lost my father and spent much of the
year lost and adrift. I worried about my mother and found myself helping her
make some pretty adult decision. That hour a day of quiet and discovering the
importance of being still and doing something physical but intent like handwork
centered me, saved me.
Over the years, I’ve come to depend on handwork to work
through problems in my own life or in my writing. More, I’ve come to appreciate
how the slow progress of one row of crochet after another, over time, makes a
whole afghan. One cross-stitch at a time ends up with a sampler worthy of
hanging on my walls. That knowledge helps me face the daunting beginnings of a
novel with less fear. I know word upon word makes a sentence, makes a
paragraph, makes a chapter. I know little steps matter, maybe, more than big
steps, and I’ve learned faith in my own ability to stick with something.
I’ve crochet over ninety afghans for family and friends.
I’ve crocheted them one little stitch at a time. I’ve cross-stitched countless
samplers, one cross-stitch at a time. I’ve struggled with difficult patterns,
unpicked mistakes, changed my mind about color choices. Each stitch has pulled,
dragged, helped me through bad times, good times, times of stress, worry and
plenty. Each stitch has blessed me ten times over as I’ve learned patience,
determination, tenacity, starting over, redoing, perfecting. The exact skills I
need for writing.
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