Saved By a Thread

I am the seventh of eight children, born of generations of talented creatives. Mind you, for the generations that came before me, it was a chore. Just as it was necessary to cook and clean, making clothes, blankets and toys for children was the easiest and most affordable way to ensure that the family had quality items that would last. The women before me strove for perfection and took pride when their family made use of their creations.

With my only sister being the oldest child, five boys between us and one after, it wasn't common for me to get brand new school or play clothes that were actually FOR a girl. My mother was far too busy keeping six rough and tumble, ever growing boys in clothes. A lot of my clothes were hand me downs from the boys and if I was really lucky, I'd get some from other families in our church. Those were always special, seeing as how they were actually girl's clothes. Once a year I would be blessed with two or three brand new, beautiful dresses created by my mother to wear to our annual church conventions and those were absolutely treasured.

My best childhood friend was also part of a very large, low income family. She was blessed with a mother who found great joy in transforming thrift store finds into newly repurposed, beautiful clothing for her children. I remember only too well spending the odd weekend there. The ones immediately following a thrift shop 'bag sale' were always the most fun. Bags of clothes would be dumped out on the bedroom floor and we madly go through them, taking pieces from one to add to another and creating completely new garments. No one could tell those clothes were second hand. The excitement was electric.

I don't remember very many good times from my childhood. Dad worked away at logging camps most of the time, leaving Mom alone to tend to all those rambunctious kids. There was no money for anything store bought... Even food was made from scratch, and looking back now, I can't help but appreciate the hard work that went into just making sure we were clothed and fed and the house was clean.

Nowadays it's okay to talk about mental illness, but back then, it was taboo. I have one brother who was 'officially' diagnosed as a child with ADHD, but looking back ALL of us admit that we had it to some degree or another. My younger brother suffers from schizo-affective disorder and I wouldn't be at all surprised if my mother told me she was bi-polar, as I remember times when she just... Broke. One time in particular, I remember two of the boys getting into some trouble and my mother collapsing to the floor like a two year old in a fit of rage. At six years old, I had to call for help, as she simply wouldn't stop crying and get up. I have recently been diagnosed with ADHD, but was the one who sat quietly daydreaming, not getting into trouble and so for the most, part went unnoticed by the adults in my life.

There was an elderly couple, Grampa Connie and Grandma Jo, that were members of our church and lived just on the outskirts of town.. Grandma Jo offered to show me how I could turn my brother's hand me down jeans into something fit for a girl. I'd go home with them after church on Sundays and she patiently taught me to embroider beautiful butterflies, flowers and such to transform those hand me down jeans into a thing of beauty. Their little farm was an incredible sanctuary, with a handful of milking goats, rabbits and an incredible garden - and NO noisy boys!! Grampa Connie and Grandma Jo were the calm in my storm as I grew up. Teaching me to appreciate stillness, peace and calm. Grampa Connie used to say that you could measure the depth of a friendship by how long you could sit in silence with someone. When love fills a silence, there is no need for conversation.

My sister, almost 15 years older than me had left home when I was only three. When she did live at home she had doted on me more than Mom ever did. She'd spent so much time taking care of me that some people in our community had assumed I was her daughter and were surprised that she didn't take me with her when she moved. After one of Mom's breakdowns, she started taking me on weekends.

She taught me to crochet when I was about eight. Patiently showing me first how to make a chain and leaving me to practice until I had it down pat, with a chain as long as I was tall. She then showed me the single crochet. She calmly taught me how to see and undo my mistakes. By the end of that weekend, I had a scarf, made with single and double crochet stitches. She'd taught me to read a pattern. She gifted me a couple of crochet magazines, a crochet hook, pair of scissors and a grocery bag full of scrap yarn.

In the first weekend, an obsession was born. My confidence, imagination and creativity soared. Every spare moment I had, I would take up that hook. By the following weekend I needed more yarn. It was another weekend spent on lessons to learn to count rows and crochet in the round and there's been no turning back. Now, some forty years later, you will seldom find me sitting without a hook and yarn in hand.

If you haven't already guessed there was more than just a little dysfunction in our family. There came a time, not long after those crochet weekends, that my parents no longer permitted me to even speak to my sister. Her lifestyle didn't align with their beliefs and they were worried that she would be a bad influence on me.

When I was 18, I left home and after a few months of travelling, I settled in to live with and reconnect with my sister. She'd discovered a new passion, counted cross stitch. We talked through much shared trauma as she taught me this new craft. She was careful to show me the secrets of quality pieces and the importance of thread that wouldn't bleed and a sharp pair of scissors. The last thing you wanted was to have a piece ruined by scissors that caught and pulled the thread. We stitched our dreams and cut the ties to a painful past.

Times had changed and crafting was becoming an art, rather than a necessity. My sister and I would pool our funds so that at least once a month we could go on a craft supply shopping spree. We'd inhale deeply on entering the craft stores, where our dreams could come to life. Browsing patterns, oohing and aah-ing over the vibrancy of new colors of thread, losing ourselves in the discovery of soft yarns we escaped our troubles in those afternoons. We healed our souls and our relationship blossomed as we sat and stitched every spare moment away.

Stitching - whether with a hook and yarn or needle thread - was an escape from chaos from the very first stitch. I was literally plucked from the chaos, where I was all but invisible and taken to places of peace and calm to be taught these hobbies. Those are the times I recall being acknowledged, recognized, validated as an individual. Grampa Connie, Grandma Jo and my sister actually SAW me and connected, one on one, with ME. The rest of my childhood was spent just trying not to be noticed... Because in our house the only time we were individually noticed is when we were in trouble.

These days, some forty plus years since I first took up a needle and thread and felt my existence acknowledged, crafting is almost like meditation for me. There's not a day that goes by that I don't take a few moments to pause and do some sort of craft. I find it challenging to sit without something working up in my hands. I have been acknowledged as a talented creator and have sold many pieces. Had I not been selling some along the way, one wouldn't be able to move about my home and I'm sure I would need a multitude of storage units to contain them all.

Connie passed when I was still a child at home. Josephine slipped away just days after my son was born. He was the last newborn she held and snuggled. My sister passed away unexpectedly in 2017. When I take up a piece to work on I can instantly feel them here with me. Loving me. Encouraging me. Acknowledging that I DO exist, I am important and I am capable of doing beautiful things. Because these people took the time to teach me a simple craft, along with some simple lessons, to listen to what I had to say and to acknowledge my existence I now only need to pick up a needle and thread or hook and yarn to get the assurance that I can conquer anything life throws in my path. That thread connects me to their love and support, even though I can't reach out to them the way I once did. As I stitch I am instantly taken back to a peaceful garden sanctuary.