Hooks, Dolls and Blankets

My mother always said I was good with my hands. When I was a child, she'd patiently let me French braid her hair for hours at a time. I was fascinated with her knitting and begged her to teach me basic stitches. At school, I fervently made friendship bracelets, which helped me form social connections. I freely handed them out to my peers and taught them how to do it themselves. We spent lunchtimes winding and knotting colourful embroidery thread together. 

It wasn't until later in life that I discovered the art of crochet. I was nineteen - a young nineteen - and travelled the world in exploration of 'self'. My first destination was North America.

This memory is so clear in my mind. I climbed in the back of a car with my new American friends and we drove to the centre of a small town in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. They wanted to give me a true 'U.S of A' experience, so we stopped off at a small diner that was dressed to the nines in neon lights. My friends and I ordered cheese fries and milkshakes with 'Babe Ruth' candy bars smoothed through with ice. Once our bellies were full, one of my friends pulled out her current crochet project - an Afgan. She carried her entire crochet set in a neat little pouch and tentatively asked us if we wanted to learn. We all agreed and spent the rest of our evening 'hooking' (the official term).

From that moment on, I was addicted. Right away, I began making scarves for family and friends. People loved receiving them and I loved making them. 

However, life quickly interrupted my crochet flow, as I moved back to Australia, and juggled full time study and casual work. Soon, I forgot how to crochet, completely! It became an afterthought, eventuating into a cherished memory of my time in the United States with my friends. 

Fast forward ten years and I relocated to rural Victoria unemployed and grieving the loss of my career as a kindergarten teacher. I developed severe nerve damage to my right shoulder and could no longer lift children or carry heavy objects. I received welfare payments and lived in a dilapidated old apartment that I desperately tried to make home. Unfortunately, I was bound to the limits and rules put on me as a renter. It was livable but just barely.

One day, I went to hang out the washing and tripped over a faulty step. I twisted my ankle and it began to swell. Sure enough, the x-ray showed it was broken: a small fracture that developed into ligament bruising and, eventually, tendonitis. I was able to walk but it was painful. It felt like I was stepping onto bubble wrap. 

The doctor told me to keep my foot elevated, supported and limit my activity. So, now, I was stuck inside the four stained walls of my shoe box flat with nothing but daytime television to occupy me.

I can't remember what brought me to the spare room where I kept a box full of memories of my time in America. Perhaps simply being on your own makes your mind wander into the past. The box was sealed with browned tape, turned flakey from years of sitting in the back of a wardrobe. As I openedthe lid, a gentle 'clang' rolled through the box all the way to the bottom. I fumbled through and my fingers touched cold aluminium. It was my crochet hook.

I sat down and turned on my laptop. With the wonders of advanced technology, I now had a virtual teacher at my fingertips. I looked up "How to crochet" and awkwardly relearned all my crochet techniques, starting with "How to cast on".

I was completely immersed once more. I made granny squares, beanies, and flowers. I practiced more advanced stitches and learned about hook tension, and different yarn weights. Soon, I took on a larger project - a jumper made from treble stitches. It challenged me as a beginner but this tutorial taught me how to read a pattern. I was happy to see the final product fitted me well. With my leg bandaged and raised, things were looking up.

Leading into the fourth week of my injury, my leg began to swell. It doubled in size to the point where even the doctor was alarmed. I was referred to a specialist who told me I had a blood clot in the calf of my left leg. Thankfully, it was small and in a spot that couldn't travel. However, that meant further time isolated and unemployed. I was also encouraged to put weight on my cracked ankle and bubble wrap foot, while taking blood thinners and anti-inflammatories each day.

Crochet helped take focus away from the pain in my leg, and despair of being isolated with little to do. I searched the web looking for new projects and came across a free Waldorf doll inspired pattern. Working in kindergartens meant I had a natural pull towards educational toys. Yet another big project for a beginner but I was keen to try it out. 

Needless to say, it turned out better than expected. I made her hair with red yarn, and her arms and legs could move like an antique teddy bear. Her dress was blue and she had a hat in the shape of a cupcake. I plastered pictures of her on social media and beamed with every comment that praised her. 

She would remain nameless until I could give her away to a niece, a cousin or (dare I say it) a daughter of my own. She sat on the bookshelf, where I could see her. I was flooded with pride everytime I glimpsed her.

As my foot began to heal, I went to yet another leg ultrasound in search of that dreaded blood clot and any others that may have formed. Relief swept over me as it was officially declared gone.

Back home, I sat down at the computer again but this time in search of employment. Skimming passed the call-outs for kindergarten teachers, I came across a fairly different role. A unique teaching job was advertised for a mentor of homeless, 'at risk' youth to nurture personal development skills. I thought to myself, "I can do this" and sure enough, I got the job.

I've now been with this company for five years and moved to full time work with my own class. Little did I know that that's where I would meet my future husband. I now crochet for him and our precious baby boy. I still make gifts for family and friends and hope to take on larger and more complex projects.

It's strange to think how a seemingly small craft can be so significant in one's life. Crochet kept me afloat in what may have been amongst the hardest times of my life. I now have my own little pouch full of everything I need to crochet at a whim: a full set of hooks, darning needles and a travel size pair of scissors.

On the way home from the hospital, my son was wrapped in a blanket I made only weeks before. Words can't describe how amazing it feels to create something - an heirloom - he can one day use to wrap his own child in. I look down at him in my arms and think of the passions he may pursue in his life. I hope they help him through, like they helped me.