One Stitch at a Time

Somewhere in the chaos of trauma I lost myself. I knew who I was supposed to be. How I was supposed to offer a refreshing bevereage, a listening ear, an authentic laugh. The one who knew all the rules about how white pants look trashy after Labor Day and how family secrets are best kept in the family.

But before I learned all the rules, I knew how to really feel my feelings. Of course, I don't remember that time now. I have snippets of memories of trying to share my unbelievable realities. Like the time I blew hot breath on a frozen window and used my fingernail to scratch the word Hi in the ice crystals. Somehow the word stayed in the glass after the ice was wiped away. And I was met with the red-faced fury of my father trying to get me to tell him the Truth of what happened, which diamond I really used to etch that glass.

Or the time that I tried to explain to my mother how I could plan my dreams before I fell asleep so that I could stream beautiful images together to help my mind relax. The laughing dismisal, the grunt of disgust, the rolling eyes all with the same result. This story, this idea, this truth you hold is wrong. You can't do what you think you can. You are impossible.

Over the years I learned how to hold my noise in. How to keep my messes hidden. How to sit with my ankles crossed, not my knees, so I could present like a lady. In school I would grow a reputation, too smart, too serious, too perfect. I could be the student all professors wanted. I could write the papers, lead the discussions, get the votes. But I could never satisfy my family. No matter what, the choices I made were wrong. So when I wanted to pursue art as a career, it is no surprise that eyes were rolled, dismissing laughs were uttered, and sneering disgust was grunted.

I followed the rules. Sort of. I found myself looking for validation and support in superficial ways and suddenly was a single mother trying to go to college. I got my degree to teach Language Arts and plodded through the routine. My family said that art was a hobby, so to prove that I had time for luxury, I painted and made and crafted gifts for every holiday. Years flew by. My older daughter was headed to college, and my youger daughter was needing medical support and the routine was no longer holding up the illusion that life is fine.

So feelings and dreams and possibilities get set aside in lots of lives, dormant passion festering in regret and disease. But not in mine! Perhaps it was my determination to climb out of numbness or maybe just my endless curiosity of materials light and color that brought me to this shift in being. Regardless, I jumped both hands into a new making adventure. I started turning my photos into epic cross-stitch patterns using around 150 different colors of cotton floss to create realistic, larger than life images.

Each piece takes several months to finish. Each one a lesson in commitment, patience, balance, and tension. Every stitch counted into place. Each thread unwound from the bobbin, snipped with my orange handled scissors, then threaded onto the needle. Maybe only two stitches of that color are needed. Then I run the thread under the back, snip the tail with my trusty scissors, and wind the thread back on the bobbin. And somehow, this new routine, one stitch at a time, is helping me find my way back to myself, back to feeling my feelings, back to knowing my own truth.

This is my tenth piece. And it is the biggest one yet. And it feels like I am just getting started.