My slow stitching journey began with a wound.

I don’t remember exactly how old I was when I received a scrap of cloth and some thread from my maternal grandmother, and stitched a simple design in running stitch. I don’t even remember what I stitched: my initials, maybe. Proud of my creativity, I showed my little scrap of stitching to my mother, who promptly told me I should get my paternal grandmother to teach me to embroider “the right way.”

My small, tender ego was deeply bruised by being told my creative efforts weren’t proper stitching, but I did ask my paternal grandmother to teach me how to embroider. She kindly and patiently taught me stem stitch, chain stitch, and lazy daisy stitches. She gave me a pillowcase with a simple pattern of vines and small flowers printed on the border, and I tried my best to follow the lines perfectly and neatly. 

Again I showed my efforts to my mother, who told me I should make my stitches smaller so my lines would look more tidy.

Through the years my interest in stitching waxed and waned. I loved the process but didn’t always love the product. I never felt like what I created was good enough, until I found the slow stitching movement and learned a new way to approach an old art. The slow stitching ethos let me love stitching wholeheartedly, as I dove into stitching for the pleasure of it, without rules and (at least in theory) free of perfectionism. I also discovered a community of creative people eager to admire and support each others work, to generously exchange ideas and advice. I love the way stitching connects people who otherwise might have nothing in common.

My beloved paternal grandmother died a few years ago. Stitching connects me to her: I think of her almost every time I pick up a needle.

Stitching also connects me to that wounded little piece of myself, who never fully disappeared. And that might seem like a drawback, but it isn’t. Instead, the past few years of healing my relationship with stitching have also started to heal that creative wound, to heal that hurt little girl who just wanted to enjoy making things, and wanted her family to approve of her. The approval might never come, but the enjoyment has returned, and I’m learning to appreciate my own particular style of creation.

To my amazement, my stitching journey has also begun to heal other parts of my creativity.  The values of focusing on the process, of creating for joy and satisfaction, has started to spiral through all the media I enjoy working with, from papercraft, to bookbinding, to making and altering clothing. I’m learning to appreciate the imperfect, the human, the individual. So stitching has connected me to other aspects of my creative self as well.

Threads of connection indeed.

Questions to ponder:

Who, or what, does your creativity connect you to? 

What do you value about those connections?

Photo by yours truly.

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