This past year, my relationship with crochet grew tenuous. What used to be my saving grace left me feeling disconnected. I found solace in other fiber arts as well as journaling, but crochet was my first. It was special. I missed it, but the inspiration was…gone.
In 2019 when I was on bedrest with my daughter, and finishing up my bachelors degree, a hobby seemed to be the only way to cure my restlessness and depression. So I started trying to learn embroidery, knitting and crochet. Crochet hit really bc close to home as my grandma had begun teaching the art to me during one of our last visits.
It became my love. A wonderful gift to myself everyday between diaper changes, cooking and cleaning. Every spare moment I had a hook in my hands.
It only made sense that when I dove into my spirituality that fiber craft came with me. We are always co-creating with the universe, and it felt undeniably magical to create with my two hands.
Until I burnt myself out. Until I was making projects I didn’t believe in or like. Until my love was feeling unappreciated.
I think considering the lives we’ve all been living since 2020, that this only makes sense…burning out I mean. I spent a year and a half crocheting to try and keep myself sane and make sense of the world.
When really, my art was trying to hold me, and I wasn’t allowing it.
So, while I am still engaging in and learning other crafts, I am doing a delicate dance with my love, slowly allowing the inspiration to ebb back in.
Bringing crochet back into my sacred practice is becoming my favorite method of grounding as of late.
As the hook slips into the chain, grasping the string to slide through and complete a stitch, I think of my ancestors, our grandmothers and great grandmothers weaving fabric and making stitches while trading stories.
I imagine myself wrapped in a shawl, working amongst them. I imagine roots shooting out of my feet and my spine and connecting me to the earth; energy traveling through the roots, my body and out of my fingers into the very fabric I’m stitching. Knot by knot, the magic weaves through time and soul into some of my favorite creations; my passion holding me once again.