Chain Stitch. Hook. Loop. Repeat.

**Stories that were not in My List My Rules

Goal: Crochet Something

Mindful this. Mindful that. 

I grew up watching my good Greek Ma craft her brains out. She did not paint or draw but she did everything else. She sewed. She embroidered. She rug-hooked. Remember that one? She took a stab at beading and macramé. She made lace doilies and warm blankets. She made a tiny loom and with that made placemats. Being her kid, I stood by and watched.

I think there was more to her craftiness than just a need to express. It was a legitimate form of therapy for her to problem-solve her daily life. I don’t think Ma thought that consciously but I am pretty sure that she was able to make it through by making.

There are vague memories of her trying to teach me to crochet. Those memories were not traumatic. I don’t recall her freaking out or getting mad or raising her voice—unlike Greek school homework. That could be a conversation for therapy. Her calmness during my crochet lessons reinforced the idea that crafting was indeed her Zen. If it could calm my Ma then it was definitely a miracle drug.

I picked crocheting for the sheer simplicity of it. There was one hook and a ball of wool. Perfect. There weren’t needles—plural. There weren’t a million little beads or embroidery threads or countless supplies. It was basic and realistic, crafty—and mindless. Totally doable. 

At lunch, I went to the home economics lab and asked the teacher for a quick lesson. She obliged with a wildly bright, and slightly offensive green string of yarn. I made a chain and then turned it around and connected a second chain. And a third. I carried on until that string was a square—well sort of a square. And then I practiced until that square was an even square. When I was satisfied with this even and technically barely adequate bright green crocheted square of yarn, I invested in my own two very neutral balls of string.

In my cozy home, I made a cup of tea and sat at my couch fully focused on the task. Beginnings matter, so starting on a positive note would keep my crafty enthusiasm at a peak.

I ran the string through my fingers. I made a loop and began by sticking the hook through the loop and then pulling a bit of yarn through and repeating. Poke. Hook. Pull. Scoop. Poke. Hook. Pull. Scoop. Poke. Hook. Pull—and eventually, the U-turn happened. This consisted of what I’ll call an extra loop. Please don’t use this as any kind of tutorial for how to crochet. It’s my very raw, and very inexperienced experience.

I carried on. After a few rows, I noticed that I was not repeating my poke-hook-pull-scoop mantra anymore. I was daydreaming. I was relaxed. The feel of the string twisting around my fingers felt nice.

I was relaxing into my task.

The gesture of the repetitive movement in its tiny form was truly mindful. I paused and took a drink of tea. It was cold. I had been at this a long while—long enough for my tea to get cold. I was surprised. Not only was it mindful apparently it was also a stringy little time machine.

That was probably a good place to stop. I had a decent length of scarf made. For the next while, I would grab the half-done scarf and tangle my digits in the cord, pulling and creating a three-dimensional pattern while waiting for a ride or for supper to cook or clothes to dry. It was very mid-eighties of me to not be distracted by a digital device and actually use a thing, repetition, and my body—my hands—to occupy myself. Sometimes (and you folks who are in your early fifties will totally get this reference) when I was on a roll and the coordination of my digits impressed meI would feel like I was a crocheting rocket ship. I felt like Jaimie Summers, the bionic woman. I could hear that weird metal pulsing sound effect given to the bionic people when they did really fast things. Bionic crocheting. Amazing!

It didn’t take very long to make a nice length of scarf that I was quite proud of. I completed it faster than I thought I would and I now often have a bowl of yarn near the sofa to busy my hands and distract my mind.