Hooking Helps

Ok, it’s not what you think. It’s crochet. 

I started ‘hooking’ when my kids were in high school. Why? Any parent with kids understands the pattern: drop off and pick up. Doesn’t matter if it’s voice lessons, soccer practice, choir rehearsal, marching band practice or drama camp. I spent a lot of my time on the road but even more time in the parking lot or school hallways waiting. And waiting. And waiting. 

Don’t get me wrong, I was glad to do it. I’m happy my kids had a chance to do so many creative things that I never got to do. I loved that their talents were seen and shared. And even better, those talents have turned into real life work. But while they learned and practiced and rehearsed, I needed something to do, too. Something that was creative, fun and easy to take with me. 

Yarn to the rescue. 

So I taught myself to crochet. I liked that it was simple: a hook and some yarn. I liked that I could take it anywhere. I liked that it was fun and creative. While it takes some concentration, I found I could crochet and listen to choir or band practice all at the same time. And I got a scarf or hat out of it - bonus!

I’ve taken classes in many art media over my life: life drawing, watercolors, acrylics, oils, pastels and sculpture in clay and window screening. I’d failed at sewing. So I didn’t have high expectations for myself. It was something to do to pass the time. Or so I thought. But I actually got into a book on Freeform Crochet a decade or so ago. And I’ve had requests for my patterns. But I never took it seriously. 

Hooking my way to sanity. 

Now, I realize that my silly hobby that embarrassed my kids is an artform to many and I respect the artists who have made crochet their medium of choice. I respect and honor their creativity. I like to make up my own projects: hats, scarves, blankets, pillow covers. Lately, I’ve been making Christmas stockings for a local women and children’s center.

For me, especially these last few years, crochet is crucial to my well being. I’ve had many life changes to deal with that I can’t control: layoffs, retirement, illness and surgery. And now, add the terrible, awful, truly bad orange clown. 

I looked it up online and here’s what I found: “there are studies that prove that knitting and crochet can positively impact brain health by enhancing cognitive function, reducing stress and promoting a sense of accomplishment. The repetitive motions and focus can improve memory, attention and even potentially slow cognitive decline. And the mindful meditative state induced by these activities can help reduce stress and anxiety.”

So I have my therapy: just get some yarn and get hooking. You might want to try it. 

Inching my way towards joy

 

Joy feels like a big word to me. I’m not sure, with everything that’s going on, what it means for me right now. So, I looked it up to see if a definition would help.

Joy defined by Merriam Webster:  to experience great pleasure or delight. The emotion evoked by well-being, success or good fortune. Or by the prospect of possessing what one desires. 

Hmm. Well, I can see some people in Washington might be feeling this right now. Taking our tax dollars to make themselves richer. Cutting critical programs that help people in need to cut their taxes and add to their greed. 

It’s not joy to me. It’s despicable. 

Help. 

After having major surgery, I spent months recovering. Doing little things became big things to do. I couldn’t throw clay on the wheel anymore. But I had to find something creative to do. Something to lift me out of the pain. Something to heal my spirit. 

I used to paint before I started working in clay. So, I went back to it. Paper and brushes and color was easier on my body and soothed my fears. I’d forgotten how much fun it was to spread water and paint on paper. It was just the therapy I needed. 

Discovery. 

I liked throwing on the wheel. And I spent many years focusing on function and technique to create pieces that would sell. It felt good to develop new skills. Making a good mug or teacup or bowl was a big accomplishment for me. Especially since I’d failed at it in high school. 

But I forgot something along the way. 

What I discovered using pens and brushes and paint and paper, again, was play. I’d forgotten that quality is essential to creating. It’s not just about making everything perfect, it’s about the making itself. 

Is this joy?

Still I have a problem with the word: joy. It brings back too many memories of church ceremonies, which were not joyful to me. And if I free it from those confines, it still feels too big, too much, too hard. 

But what if I just let myself go back to that little girl in the woods playing with sticks and mud? She didn’t know what the word joy meant, she just had fun. What would happen if I let her lead me back to joy?  

Inch by inch

A little watercolor one day

A little clay another day

Some color brushed on clay

It’s ok, it’s just play. 

But maybe, it’s new way to joy.