Making Meditation: How Sewing Saved my Mental Health

Adventure. That’s what I always thought I would do if I found myself with a little chunk of time off. I would take a long hike, go cycle touring or become a trained rescue diver. Years ago, in my cash-strapped mid-twenties, I ate my way around South America. I lived for my senses then, enrolling myself in an intensive Spanish speaking course in Cuzco in the morning and taking latin dancing classes in the afternoon. I loved the way the accent felt in my mouth in and beat under my soles.

It was in Mexico that my life became a colour television experience. I stayed with my half-Russian, half-Mexican friend, his beautiful then-girlfriend, and their circus performer housemate in a little flat in Oaxaca, Oaxaca. It was Dia de los Muertos - the ‘Day of the Dead’. The festival went on, day and night, for three days. Half the time I didn’t know what was happening, all I knew was that it was wonderful, truly wonderful. In Mexico City I ate street food and danced, and visited Frida Kahlo’s house, and ended up in long conversations with a bored art gallery worker who was writing a post-apocalyptic zombie novel in his spare time. “It’s set somewhere really exotic”, he said, “In a place no one’s ever heard of. It’s called ‘Brisbane’”. I happen to be from Brisbane. ‘I’ve heard of it’, I said.

Fast forward eleven years. I’m in Brisbane, again. There’s no zombie apocalypse outside, but we are in the midst of a global pandemic so maybe that’s close enough. My Doctor is lovely, her office: utterly bland. She is encouraging me to take a month of stress leave. A crushing work situation had gradually deteriorated around me over the course of the last two years. Emotionally and physically exhausted, I didn’t have the energy to go on with it nor the strength to leave. I was listless. I knew I couldn’t carry on like this but owning up to it took courage to face the reality that I was stuck and I was desperate. ‘Alright, I said. I’ll do it.’ I submitted my paperwork to HR that afternoon.

I was skeptical that a month away from work would so much to help my chronic situation. All I knew was that the me that was previously fully alive: the dancing, Zombie Brisbane, hiking and cycling me - was feeling very far away, like somebody else, someone from another time. I wanted to visit friends or go someplace, but this required planning and energy that I just didn’t have.

So, I stayed at home. I spent a week unashamedly watching Netflix, but I quickly grew bored of it. Then I borrowed my mother’s sewing machine, just ‘for a while’. I wanted to mend a few garments, and finally hem those too-long trousers. I turned a dress into a top and added pockets with the leftover fabric. I made my partner a pair of slippers out of a much-loved woollen jumper that shrunk in the wash. I tried a new shirt pattern and made the sleeves from an old tablecloth. I wanted to deal with the scraps of fabric in my stash I had collected over the years, many of which were too small for dressmaking projects. One making project turned into another and another.

Bunting quickly became my favourite project, my preferred way of dealing with small off-cuts and odd angles. I made some for my oldest friend who had a dear little newborn. And then some for another friend with new parent status, this one made out of a beautiful old bag I had worn to shreds and the leftovers of an old kimono. Soon all my friends with children were getting bunting. I made vegetable-themed bunting for my housemate’s birthday with felt appliqué scraps. A rainbow length took pride of place at wonderful rainbow wedding. A miniature set was my gift to mum for mother’s day. I mailed bunting interstate and overseas. I was the queen of coloured triangles.

I did my best to avoid textile waste, which is a huge environmental concern and one of the fastest growing sources of pollution. I upcycled old jeans, souvenir handkerchiefs, tea towels and sheets into triangle after triangle. Pieces of bunting became rainbow lengths of mismatched denim, Japanese silk, my grandfather’s old shirts. I liked the semi-randomness of process and that each piece held a story for me, like I was sewing bits of myself back together. Hundreds of triangles sewn right sides together, bagged out, and neatly pressed. The most inefficient and time consuming way to make bunting, but it was my meditation. I liked the rhythm and the flow. It was tactile. This wasn’t complicated and it wasn’t high art, but it was all absorbing, immersive, simple joy.

From experience I learnt the properties of different fabrics. I also learnt the importance of good quality tools. Mum’s retro Bernina sewing machine is from the 90s but it’s a high quality machine that has been scrupulously well looked after. I broke a rotary cutting blade and replaced it with a cheaper one only to discover that it snagged the fabric. I have a whole new appreciation for my Fiskar sewing scissors, now labelled FABRIC ONLY on the handle.

Gradually I started to feel more like myself. My partner commented that I seemed happier. ‘It’s because sewing is sew good!’, I said, and he rolled his eyes at the pun. I was making jokes again.

Of course, It would be disingenuous to say that sewing alone saved my mental health. I saw a psychologist, I took medication. I took care to stay connected with family and friends. But these things take time to work, and in the meantime the meditation of making truly helped me get connected with myself and come up with a plan for the future and to deal with some more systemic issues in my career. I was learning and developing my skills. I fostered my creativity, my productivity, and my generosity. I started to feel whole again.

You might be wondering - what became of my boxes of bunting? After I gave away a small mountain of it I decided to plan a stall for an upcoming market. It’s not really about making money, it’s about not having it go to waste. I’ve decided to name my enterprise ‘Penny Farthing’s Cheerful Bunting Supply Store’ (I always did like bicycles). I hope it brings others as much happiness as it’s brought me.