Over Christmas as I unpacked our decorations and placed them around the house I found myself lingering over the needlework – a Santa, some trees, a sampler – I had made by hand years ago. They were pieces I had stitched when my oldest child (soon to be 27) was napping as an infant. I still love looking at those creations – now framed artwork – as much as I enjoyed creating them all those years ago.

I used to love stitching – a love that was lost in the daily duties of raising children, working and forming a family. Yet, after the holidays, the memory of stitching having been stirred, I went into our “school room” – a room that is now used by two of my sons for an office and looked to see if I could find any of my stitching supplies. I could vaguely remember one day years ago culling my stash and placing what I chose to keep in a plastic container. I found the container tucked under an old armoire, removed it and carried it into our dining room to open and peruse. Its contents were all well preserved – several seasonal cross stich patterns for Christmas and spring, assorted sizes and colors of aida and klostern fabrics, two storage containers of DMC embroidery floss, a couple of hoops, and a sachet making kit. “I wonder if I can still do this?” I pondered. My myopic eyes are not the same as they were in my twenties and thirties and my fingers are certainly stiffer now, but I pulled out from the assortment a piece of the sand colored klostern – an evenweave fabric with seven nice fat squares to an inch. The klostern had already been measured and cut and was ready to stitch. I also had a rather plentiful stack of Prairie Schooler Santa patterns that my friend Leslie had shared with me. Leslie and I used to share our love of stitching and crafts working on various projects in the afternoons. She has moved away now, but the time we shared creating and chatting all those years ago is a sweet memory. Leslie’s home was always such a pleasant and comforting place to be. Leslie had a large collection of Prairie Schooler Santas she had stitched and made into pillows. At Christmastime when you went into her home your eye was drawn to this beautiful handmade collection that she had assembled in a basket. As I sorted through the container of supplies I discovered I had almost everything I needed to begin a project. The only thing I lacked were some extra skeins of DMC embroidery floss, particularly shades 221 and 822, which was easily remedied by a trip to the Michael’s craft store only a few miles from my neighborhood.

That weekend I sat down with my supplies and began. I had no realization when I threaded the needle for the first time and began to count out the x’s that made up the design what would awaken within me. As I counted squares and formed x’s and the image slowly took shape it stirred so many memories – memories of who I was and still am, memories of peace and love and family and time.

Before I became a mother I was an avid cross stitcher with some needlepoint and knitting mixed in. I can remember carrying my supplies in a small tote bag (sometimes a plastic shopping bag from the needlework store) – needle, fabric, design, scissors and thread and going to spend time with my grandmother or my dad and step mom and stitching. Both my grandmother and step mom were needle artists. My grandmother quilted and my step mom knitted. Over time my step mom learned quilting from my grandmother. In fact the two of them shared a deep friendship that I am confident was formed over the piecing and stitching of quilts. What a wonderful way for a friendship to form! I can easily picture the two of them sitting at the round oak table, bright light overhead, quilt pieces scattered about the table surface, coffee mugs readily available with fabric in hand stitching. My grandmother often used empty checkbook boxes as a place to store her quilt squares. She once showed me that you could place your quilt pieces, needle, thread, and a small pair of scissors all in a check box and slip the box into your purse to have it close at hand when you wanted a little something to do. My grandmother was adamant that quilting - the piecing and the finish – be done by hand. Her creations were truly works of art with beautiful stitching. I have two baby quilts she made when my oldest child was born. It is a treasure formed with bright colored fabric, even stitches, and love.

I’ve been thinking of my stepmom a great deal these days. She was attentive to my stitching projects and when I was in town visiting her and my dad between school semesters or over the summer she would often take me to the needlework or knitting shop and purchase the supplies for me to begin a new project. She was a fan of needlework projects! And a trip to the needlework shop was often preceded or followed by lunch at a local spot. I think, perhaps, that much like the relationship she had with my grandmother, our friendship was formed over the conversation of projects in process or about to begin. She became a really good friend, easy to talk to, interested and supportive. She gave me my first knitting lesson and coached me as I created my first prayer shawl. I can still remember going into the store and purchasing three skeins of Homespun yarn. I have a prayer shawl of my own in Homespun that she created for me and gave me. My step mom was particular about tools and if I was using something she thought inferior she would whisk me away that afternoon or the next day to replace it with something more appropriate. I have several knitting needles that were gifts from her.

I find each day that I look forward to my stitching time. I awaken in the morning already thinking about the project I’m going to be working on that night. (The extremely cold temperatures in the early weeks of this year provided even more incentive to create a spot by the fireplace with good light and all of my supplies.) Each night after dinner I change clothes, pack my lunch for the next day, lay out my clothes and when all is in order I settle in to stich for a couple of hours. In a matter of weeks I’ve completed a couple of Prairie Schooler Santas, am well on my way to finishing a third, am assembling the supplies for a couple of Valentine’s projects and have identified some super cute birds I would like to work on in the spring. In spare moments I peruse designs online and have a mental list of designers whose work has caught my eye and have downloaded some free patterns that will be fun small projects. The ability to watch videos and review projects virtually is a new experience in this season of needlework. I’m captivated by the stories of other needle artists and the freshness of the work that people are doing. I’m falling in love again one stitch at a time.

What a joy discovering this old friend has been for me. Stitching is not something to do. It is my companion waiting to accompany for a time each day, providing respite, renewal, happiness, peace, and delight. I find myself wondering what else lies dormant in me waiting to be awakened at some unknown time and place to enliven my soul? Much like walking, stitching now defines me. It’s who I am. I stitch. I bring beauty into the world. I share this love. What a gift it is! There’s a new layer to my stitching experience now that I wasn’t aware of in my twenties and thirties. That which some might think of as mundane I find extraordinary. It is soulful and lifegiving. Such an ordinary thing – stitching and yet, there’s so much there. So much to know and experience and be. I can recall over the years being in a group and asked to go around the circle and share what you like to do. I can also recall sifting through ideas in my head of what I might share:

All of which is true, but now, if asked my answer would be, “I stitch. I walk. I write.” Such clarity this stitching (and walking as well as writing) has given me. Over one, down two. I count the squares. The needle goes down and up and down and up. X marks the spot. Down and up and down and up. Breathe in and out and in and out. Count. Create. Be.

I have been falling in love again and what a glorious gift it is.

“We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.”

― T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets