Cross-Stitching Joy

Initially, I didn’t start cross-stitching in search of joy. I started it as a means to survive. I was a young middle aged girl who had been transplanted from her beloved mountain home. Where soccer and night time games with the neighborhood kids were the norm. Only to be dragged halfway across the country to a world where I didn’t belong. At the impressionable age of 11 I received messages all around me that seemed to be telling me, “Chloe, you are not enough.”

I was mocked for the healthy lunches I brought with me to school. Something that I genuinely enjoyed seemed to shine an unwanted negative spotlight on me. When I sought to protect my skin during the winter by putting sunscreen on, I was ridiculed for smelling badly. Then there were the things I held closer to my chest. Things that I was deeply ashamed of such as being overweight/having an emotional eating disorder, the coldsores I would get on my nose triggered by stress, and the financial status of my family just to name a few. Unfortunately, I was mercilessly bullied for all these things as well. Living in this unfamiliar place, I struggled to make friends. I tried to turn to my parents, but in my 11 year old mind, I didn’t want to bother them with my sob stories of being bullied. To me it seemed like they had enough on their plates.

Looking back, I marvel at the way the universe always gives you more than you thought you wanted, but precisely what you needed. Through my journey to find inner peace, I stumbled upon an unexpected way to create.

It all started with my mother and a Christmas stocking. I recall going to doctor appointments with her while she was pregnant with my younger siblings. As she waited to be seen, she would furiously thread floss (no not dental floss, it’s the thread used in cross-stitching, but much thicker). I didn’t consciously realize this at the time, I must have only been 8 years old. Nonetheless, it seemed to give her a lot of joy and contentment. It was something that took her mind off the stresses of raising a big, chaotic family. I reminisce about the completion of that piece of art. It was a depiction of Santa Clause, and it was beyond beautiful to me. With the letters of my name, intricately sewn across the front.

Every year the joy of Christmas came from unveiling my stocking out of storage. I’ll admit, the charm of it had a lot to do with the fact that only my older brother, my father, and myself owned one. In a world where I felt devalued and judged for my very existence, this stocking made me feel richer than gold. Every year it made me feel special, unique and loved just for being me.

Eventually the desire to create got stirred in me as well. At which point my mother lovingly suggested I try my hand at cross-stitching. I was intrigued, yet intimidated. How could I make something as special as what she had created for me? Nevertheless, I let her show me the ropes. It began with her telling me a little secret. Her trick, you see, all started with picking a pattern I thought I would enjoy working on. Doing so would make the process feel a lot less overwhelming and more achievable. So the journey began with a search to find a pattern that spoke to my soul.

As time went on out of nowhere I stumbled upon my first cross-stitch pattern. I believe it was by a company called Dimensions. I’m not really sure though, it was years ago. The pattern was a nostalgic Victorian Scene. Complete with stained glass windows, beautiful mature trees, awnings over quaint stores, a floral shop, and of course a horse right dead center. Everything in my bones told me that I was meant to create this for my Aunt Judi. She loved the Victorian Era. I remember every Christmas I would set up her Dickens village with her. It was a vast array of porcelain collectibles, and it fascinated me! Every season it filled me with wonder putting the village together and filling the scene with puffs of cotton for snow.

My Aunt Judi, the owner of this magical Victorian village, was a powerhouse of a woman. She was the glue that brought my Dad’s side of the family together. She was the fun Aunt that took my siblings and myself on road trips across the country. She instilled in me a sense of adventure and fun. Introducing me to Disneyland, boxer dogs, mint chocolate chip ice cream, jeeps, and my ultimate favorite… horses. She was the only one in my family that shared my love for these noble creatures. In fact she was the one that gifted me my very first horseback riding lessons as a young girl. I’ll forever be grateful to her for that. She expanded my vision of what was possible for my life. She was a woman that got things done. Never graduated college, but was quick witted and successful in business. In many ways she was my second mom, and I looked up to her. An independent woman not governed by what I perceived as “the whims of a man”. Free to express herself and to move about in the world as she pleased. She taught me that it was ok to laugh loudly, and to be proud of being a sunflower in a sea of roses. As a young girl I instinctively knew that I was different from those around me, even my immediate family. I felt I was an outsider to them, and was made starkly aware of my differences. However, with my aunt, she valued those differences and praised me the most for them. It felt so good to have someone that made me feel like it was A-ok to just be ME! Even if that wasn’t accepted by others, it was ok.

So when I found my first cross-stitch pattern with the whimsical Victorian scene, it was so difficult keeping it a secret from my Aunt. I knew she was going to love it. Many times I had to catch myself from excitedly telling her what I was working on. I felt so eager and impatient to reach the finish line. Yet I still needed to be taught the basics.

My mother was so patient with me, probably more patient than I deserved. I was stubborn and headstrong, still am to this day. By some miracle though, I allowed her to teach me the cross-stitching basics. From folding the fabric into a near perfect square in order to mark the middle point. To which direction to cross the floss over those miniscule squares. During those times where I would inevitably make a mistake, it was like a puzzle trying to uncover the start of where it all went wrong. At which point she would hand me a pair of scissors.

Oh how I have a love hate relationship with my trusty scissors. To pull them out means, to my great dismay, that I have made a mistake. A mistake that has gotten me lost and off track from my ultimate goal of finishing. On the other hand, my scissors became a tool to start anew. They give me a fresh start. It’s akin to the idea of deep cleaning and organizing. I’d like to think I made organizing cool long before Marie Kondo came along, but I digress.

Sometimes you must tear something down, make a complete mess of it, before it can be rebuilt into something better. You know that moment when you take everything you own and put it into a grand pile to organize it? The goal is to sort and downsize it all into a manageable collection of items. You begin to wonder what the hell you were thinking, because it looks far worse than it did before you started. Somehow though, the messy “problem” manifests into something liveable again. All of a sudden what seemed overwhelming at first, (your massive pile of crap). Begins to be toned down and each item is either released or put into its rightful place.

You see, scissors do this in cross-stitching. It may be painful to un-due a section you put so much work into, but without correcting and breaking down your mistakes you’ll never be able to progress and move forward. There were so many times where I would try and bury my head in the sand. Pretend I didn’t see my mistakes. Eventually, however, it became impossible to avoid. I had to cut before I could start using my floss to rebuild again. With the right tools I began to see great possibilities.

After learning the basics of cross-stitching with my mom, I soon discovered how incredibly soothing it was. Who would have thought, threading floss through tiny squares is actually quite therapeutic! The only way I can describe it to you, is this, if you have ever watched a sped up cake decorating video on social media and enjoyed it…. then you get what I mean. Cross-stitching was fantastic at putting my trauma inflamed mind at ease. So much so, that I often found myself rushing home from school to dig into my bag with the horses on it. The one that contained all my cross-stitch tools and creations. I brought that horse bag with me everywhere I went. From long car rides to sleepovers with my Grandma. It was almost always found attached to my hip. I had stumbled upon a great tool of creativity, one that quieted my racing anxious thoughts. When I was cross-stitching, I wasn’t worrying about whether I fit in or not. The more I created the more I felt I had a place to belong in this world. And that is the power of creation.

To a girl who experienced much turmoil and instability in her youth, cross-stitching was a gift. It allowed me to experience predictability, consistency, peace, and a sense of being grounded. Following a pattern you get certain results, which gave me predictability. Threading floss through tiny squares the same way over and over gave me consistency. If you’ve ever experienced anxiety, you know how intense those racing thoughts can be. This new found passion of mine gave me peace and more importantly a sense of stillness… and that was a miracle. There is something so grounding about getting lost in a creative piece. The world around you quiets down, and you become the essence of joy through creative expression. As I cut, threaded, and built a beautiful nostalgic scene from the past, I slowly discovered what it was like to feel joy.

Yet slowly over time, I seemed to stop working on it as regularly. It must have been around highschool when I was finally able to become invisible. That’s about when the bullying stopped, and with it my progress on my Victorian cross-stitch. I fell prey to other distractions. For some years, it sat tucked neatly away in the back of my closet... unfinished in that trusty old horse bag. Throughout the years I’d find myself drawn to pick it back up here and there. However, as my Aunt Judi and I grew apart during my angsty teenage years, I found even less of a reason to want to pick it back up again.

Time drifted by and I soon began college. Here I was 18 years old finally out on my own, and I still had not conquered the ability to make friends. I experienced such intense social anxiety that it took being bribed with cash by my parents to go out dancing one night. In case you're wondering, I still have yet to receive that 40$ they promised me. I think they lied just to get me out. What a way to build trust, I know, but what I did receive was far more meaningful. It was a call from my Aunt Judi. After finding out what I had done, she told me, “I’m so proud of you. I wish I could be as brave as you!” This comment truly stunned me. She was the epitome of fun and adventure. I’ll never forget that phone call. I was standing in these gorgeous outdoor gardens on campus feeling incredibly proud.

A year or two passed by and I got married... Inadvisably young, I know. Still in many ways that same insecure young girl. My aunt attended my wedding, looking all proud from behind in her red scarf. I’ll never forget that photo. She had finally found the love of her life and married him soon afterwards. His name is John. I was there when they met for the first time. It was on his family farm in West Virginia. I kid you not it is like Winnie the Pooh’s hundred acre woods, just add another zero to the end of that and this is what that property is like. It was breathtaking and stunning. Complete with rolling hills, woods, and a river running through it. The epitome of peace.

Then out of nowhere, like a sucker punch to the gut, I got the call that no one wants to receive. My Aunt Judi had Stage 4 ovarian cancer. The timeline and details are a little blurry for me. As you can imagine it was an incredibly traumatic time in my life. What I do remember though, is the feeling of a new sense of urgency. Which is what reunited me with my Victorian cross-stitch. It was like meeting with an old cherished friend, so familiar and soothing. Nevertheless, this time was slightly different. With an added sense of urgency, I knew I needed to finish it. I just had no idea how much time my Aunt would have on this earth. It’s interesting how art can be a means by which grief can express itself. It’s like the Disney Movie, “Inside Out”, about feelings. The whole entire time the character “Sadness” created more havoc and damage when she wasn’t allowed to express herself. That film taught us that ALL feelings have their place and should be allowed to flow freely. This piece of art was my way of expressing my sadness, grief, joy… all of it… for a person who massively impacted my life.

Only months after her initial diagnosis, I graduated college. The day after, my family and I were celebrating in Park City, Utah. Towards the end of the day, we received a call from my Aunt’s new husband John. I’ll never forget it, we were in the parking lot of the outlets. John said, “She’s gone. As I left the room she slipped away in her sleep.” Just like that my world came crashing down. I never got to finish my cross-stitch piece for her. As I heard the news, my grief consumed me. I just fell to the ground unaware of anyone around me, and just began to wail.

Only hours before, I was deciding between which horse photograph to purchase. It was my parent’s treat for my graduation. It was a toss up between a paint horse and a gray, (white looking horse), with a black background. I sat there for several minutes. Eventually, my gut told me to choose the gray one. It was hand signed by the artist, Robert Dawson. He owned all these horses on his ranch in California. The title of it is... “Grey Ghost”.

I know in my heart that my aunt guided me to that decision. This photo hangs in my living room to this day with pride, and reminds me that my aunt is always leading and guiding me to my highest good. I believe she was with me for the birth of my daughter. Who happened to be born ten days late, on July 31. Which also happens to be my Aunt Judi’s birthday. Also, during the darkest parts of my abusive marriage, I know she was right alongside me lifting me up. She seemed to be there for me even more after her passing. She is definitely one of my angel guides, I know this for sure.

I remember the day we found out she had passed. Getting home was a blur. Instead of continuing the graduation celebration, we all sat in somber silence. With anxiety overcoming me, I once again uncovered the contents inside my beloved horse bag. So many times, this cross-stitch had channelled my anxiety and transformed my grief into joy. Now as an adult ten years from its origin, it was there to help me do the same. As I slowly began to finish it, I added finishing touches that reflected my Aunt and her life personally. I added “Raymond House” to honor her father, Raymond Beyer. “Boxer Bros” in remembrance for her two boxer dogs that brought laughter and companionship into her life. “J. Beyer Watch” for the woman herself, Judi Beyer. Finally, “Glass and Co” to celebrate her beloved new husband and their union. A joining of partner’s and new families together. I offered to give the piece to John, but he felt I should keep it. I am so glad he had me do that. Oftentimes when I felt at my lowest, I would feel her presence near this framed picture. It was something I couldn’t explain, but knew to be true.

You know, writing this makes me feel free. It finally acknowledges 11 and 21 year old Chloe, and what she went through. Her quest for peace brought her unexpected joy through the art of cross-stitching. Many nights where most kids would be out with friends, I found companionship with my horse bag. Within it kept the contents of my creativity safe. To me it was like my own personal Mary Poppins bag. It opened up a whole new world where I was safe to be me. A world of new discovery, truth, companionship, peace, and joy.

Only days after my Aunt Passed away, the color red kept flooding my mind. To me it was the color that represented the influence she had had in my life. As well as the legacy she left behind. Power, a little bit of heartache, passion, love, and most of all joy. After all, each one of us bleeds red. It is the color of life. I can think of no better color than red to choose to sign, complete, and honor my Aunt’s memory.