Stitches of Life

"No. That is incorrect. Rip it out and do it again." I wanted to howl in frustration. Things were not meant to be going like this.

I do not remember how old I was when I had asked my mother to teach me how to crochet. But I do remember her hands whizzing through the air, magically turning a ball of yarn into a beautiful doily, or piece of clothing. I wanted to be able to do that magic, and I wanted to be able to do it NOW. It was then that I found out that magic is not easy. In fact, magic takes hard work. My mother would have me practice a row of stitches, and if there was a single mistake in that row, I would have to rip it out and start again. I wanted to scream, "Who cares if one is messed up?! Just let me keep going!" She was looking out for me and just wanted to be a good teacher. Meanwhile, I crumbled under the frustration of not being naturally gifted. Why could I not make my hands whiz through the air like hers? Why could I not make it look effortless? I do not remember exactly how those lessons ended either. I do know that the little starter kit of hooks and yarn my mother had put together for me was shoved in a drawer, not to be touched for many years.

During one winter break from college, I came across that kit and everything else seemed to fade away. Something compelled me to try again. Stubbornly, I did not ask my mother for help this time around. I wanted to figure it out for myself. There was no “movie moment,” however. The ease I had longed for when I first started learning still was not there. I was not suddenly somehow great, but in the solace of my room, I slowly began to make progress. I had always felt an ache, a need to create something. As much as I struggled initially, I knew crocheting was going to be the way I eased that ache. I think a part of me knew that before I was old enough to really understand what crocheting was. After all, one of my favorite things to do as a child had been to pick up sticks and mimic my mother's crocheting.

My first doily slowly took shape, and the day finally came to tie it off and cut the yarn. As my scissors snipped shut, freeing my doily from the yarn ball, I felt exhilarated. It was not great. It was lumpy and the errors were obvious. But it was mine, and complete! I had done it! It would only get better from there!

Over many years, I did improve. My doilies got neater and more intricate. I eventually tried my hand at clothing as well. The joy of creation was, and is, ever present. Today, my creations fill my home and are also scattered throughout the world. I love giving away the things I make and seeing someone's face light up with joy when they receive it. I love filling a gift with effort, meaning, and purpose. I hope when people hold something I made, they know how much I care.

Selfishly, I also love crocheting for the way it helps me. I am a very anxious person, and sometimes I deal with that by picking at my skin until I bleed. But having a crochet hook and yarn in my hands quiets the noise and stress of the world. It fills my hands with purpose, and rather than harming myself, I create.

The biggest honor that crocheting brought to me came a few years back. Sadly, the mother of one of my close friends passed away. The mother had crocheted during her life and had many supplies in her possession when she passed. My friend, not having a use for all the supplies, asked if I would like to have them. She wanted them to be put to good use. I was so touched and accepted the box of supplies, hoping to do right by the gift I had been given. In the box I found yarn and hooks, but I also found hand-written patterns, and an idea took shape.

The following Christmas was the first that my friend would spend without her mother. That year, I presented her with a shadowbox frame. In one half was a sheet of paper, one of her mother's handwritten patterns. In the other half was the pattern brought to life using the yarn and hooks that had been left in the box given to me. When I saw my friend’s face, I was so grateful for all the struggles, practice, and experience that had brought me to that point. I was so happy that I could use my craft to give my friend a part of her mom back.

Years after I completed my first doily, I made another from the same pattern. The second attempt was much better, and very much reflected all the practice that had gone into my crocheting since then. However, I still hang on to that first doily, to remind myself of how far I have come. To remind myself of the first time I felt the magic of creation and the path it started me on, filling my life with so much joy.