Finding Calm Through Crochet

I grew up surrounded by crafty women.

I don't mean crafty in the sense that they were sly or devious (though, sure, one or two of them could be). I mean in the sense of being skilled at crafts like knitting, sewing, and crochet. When I was a child, all of the doll's clothes in my toy box had been crafted via the creative endeavors of my mother, grandmother, aunt and great aunts.

It wasn't just my dolls that were attired in the fruits of their labors, either. Many dresses, jumpers, and cardigans in my own wardrobe were the products of my mother's many hours of creative genius. Thus, the soundtrack of my childhood was the click-clack of knitting needles, the soft and subtle whooshing of wool being worked with a crochet hook, and the thundering staccato vibration of my mother's Singer sewing machine.

(Also ABBA, but that's a whole other story.)

When I got a little older and my dolls had been handed down to younger relatives, given away to charity shops, or else packed away into towering stacks of cardboard boxes in the garage, my mother spent more of her time crocheting doilies. Her craft cupboard contained many bundles of fine cotton thread marked as "crochet cotton", all of them in neutral shades of white, cream, beige, taupe, camel, chocolate, and grey.

Mum would sit in front of the television in the evening with a crochet pattern on her lap, a hook in her hand, and a cup of coffee sitting on the little side table next to her favorite armchair. I always marveled at the way her eyes would be focused on the TV even as her hands worked away at the thin yarn, shaping delicate and intricate patterns as though she were the arts and crafts equivalent of Marvel's Doctor Strange. Only occasionally would she look down and refer to the pattern instructions, and usually just during the ad breaks.

At some point in my youth, Mum taught me how to knit. I don't remember how old I was or what my first knitting project was, although I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest that it was probably a scarf. More of a crochet fan than a knitter herself, her own mother being the knitting aficionado of the family, Mum nonetheless persisted in showing me the ropes. (Or should that be the yarns?) She instilled in me an appreciation of how satisfying it is to transform a ball of wool into a prettily-patterned source of pride with just two knitting needles and a bit of knit and purl, garter, slip, and stocking stitch.

Mum's efforts to educate me in the ways of the mighty crochet hook, however, were less successful. Try as I might, I just could not coordinate my hands in the correct way. In frustration, and seeking the path of least resistance, I gave up. When my sister announced she was pregnant with twins and Mum and I declared that we would start our own little craft circle in the living room, I stuck entirely to knitted clothes and toys, while my mother both knitted some gorgeous cardigans and crocheted the most exquisite baby blankets you have ever seen.

A few years later, I was diagnosed with bilateral breast cancer. Looking for something to distract me during the whole ordeal, I bought a few balls of wool, a set of knitting needles of several sizes, and a selection of inexpensive crochet hooks. It was fortunate that I opted for the cheaper tools, as chemotherapy left me too tired to do much more than just stay in bed or, if it were a good day, venture downstairs to lie on the sofa and watch one episode of The Big Bang Theory after another. By the time my treatment had finished and my life was returning to a semblance of normalcy, I had completed no more than 20 or 30 rows of simple garter stitch.

Having to endure several surgeries, chemotherapy, and radiotherapy had been difficult. However, I was to struggle with something even worse in 2015, when my mother died very suddenly and unexpectedly.

My mother was my best friend in the whole world, and I was utterly devastated by her death. She was always the one constant force of love in my life, and the one person who truly “got” me. Though we had been living on opposite sides of the world for nearly ten years at the time of her passing, we spoke on the phone and emailed each other regularly. With her gone, I felt completely alone, drifting aimlessly through life like a spectral shadow. It was a loss that sent me spiraling into a deep depression, panic attacks, and harmful behaviors.

It soon became apparent to me that I was facing a serious mental health crisis and, eventually, I sought medical and psychological help. Unable to work for a time whilst I battled to get myself back on an even keel, I sought out activities that would distract me from my dark thoughts. To that end, I tried adult coloring books and although they did indeed take me out of my head for a few hours a day, I soon found myself craving something more tactile.

Like a bolt from the blue, the thought of crochet popped into my head, and I dug out those crochet hooks I'd bought back during my cancer treatment, bought a box full of double-knit wool, and an accompanying crochet pattern. It wasn't a cheap purchase; I must have known somehow that this time I would stick with it and not give up at the first hurdle. I scoured YouTube for crochet tutorials, found a few that were particularly helpful, and set about learning how to weave pretty granny-squares of various designs and colors.

Growing more proficient over time, I soon found myself spending entire days and most of my nights wrapped in a calming, crochet-created cocoon that helped me to regain my focus, mindfulness, and concentration. It distracted me from the rollercoaster of my emotions and gave me a safe activity in which to engage when I found myself fighting the urge to self-harm. Moreover, having set myself the task of following a pattern and completing a multi-colored, intricately-patterned blanket for the coming winter, it gave me a goal to aim for and was something I could look forward to each day.

And that single, simple goal gave me a reason to get out of bed when I would otherwise have pulled the covers over my head and just given up.

Within six months, I had completed not one blanket, but six. Not only that, but I had crafted myself four scarves, two pairs of slippers, a protective sleeve for my tablet, and a box full of crocheted Christmas gifts that were very well-received and much complimented. The sense of pride in my achievements was crucial in rebuilding my sense of self-worth and my capacity to find enjoyment and relaxation. I only wish I could have shared my new-found love of crochet with my mother, as that would have been the crowning glory of my achievements. She would have been so pleased that I had finally caught the crochet bug!

After years of having been encouraged, coaxed, and cajoled, I don't know why it should have been that particular moment in time that finally saw me determined to learn how to crochet. Was it Mum herself guiding my hand, perhaps, whispering words of encouragement from the ether? She always did want me to learn crochet, after all, and she could be pretty persistent. Maybe she decided she wasn't going to let a little thing like death prevent her from achieving her long term goal of converting me to the Zen of Crochet!

If so, well done, Mum, and thank you. Crochet helped to pull me out of the pit of despair in which I had been languishing, it enabled me to feel close to you when I needed it most, and it has now become my go-to whenever I'm feeling stressed, overwhelmed, and in need of some inner peace.

©️ Jupiter Grant, 2021

Jupiter Grant is a self-published author, blogger, narrator, and audiobook producer.

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