Knitting is becoming popular again. It seemed to have faded into the “once was” of handicrafts but has, for some unknown reason, been resurrected and has generated a bevy of devotees and retail resources designed to feed their habit. I am one of those off-and-on-again crafters, developing a skill, quickly becoming addicted to the extent that I dream of craft supplies. I hoard the things I think I need in order to give life to a current addiction and, then on the down side of the addiction curve, find less and less time and interest in my obsession, allowing my collections to accumulate.
Thus you will find cupboards and odd corners filled with the detritus of my past love affairs with various crafts. My acrylic paint supply is housed in a cupboard in the family room, but the canvases that I purchased for what was to be great art are in the coat closet, still blank and without much promise. The watercolor paints have made it to a shelf in my work room, as have the variety of watercolor papers that seemed necessary to purchase when I was in the full heat of watercolor love.
I also have this indefinable attraction to paper, to the crafts that involve paper. Working on a scrapbook of the things that I collected during my son’s school years, I’ve accumulated a handsome selection of what are called embellishments, easily found in wonderful array at any number of craft stores or the craft sections of big box stores. I am a sucker for these things. I have even more partially-used skeins of yarn, left over from scarves, sweaters, afghans and such. They live in a box in the basement or on a shelf in my workroom. I have an armory of knitting and crochet needles of every size and material.
There is fabric left over from years of sewing projects. Last year I gave away untold yards of the stuff but there were some pieces that were just too beautiful to part with. What will I do with them? Lord only knows, but they are like a drug…as are all of the other bits and remnants of what were once passionate love affairs.
And, while these are the badges of my crafter’s shame, I know that I am not alone in this. Mention any of these peccadilloes and others will easily acknowledge that they have their guilty cashes of stash. I can clearly remember my father, home after working all day and spending two hours commuting by train, retreating to the cellar to indulge his love of woodworking. His hoard of wood, usually limited to found pieces, stuff from demolition sites and such, lying up along one wall, for use some day.
It seems that we all yearn to express our creativity in some ways, yearning to make something, build something that is unique to ourselves. We may find accolades in our work, as many do, but even the most celebrated have avocations, things that speak to another part of their brain, their souls, that allow them to wander among the possibilities inherent in something different. It is almost as if we are, no matter how old, trying to find something, something that elevates our spirits, makes our lives shine with relevance if only within the context of that activity. We are enthusiastic, attentive and joyful.
It may not be those things that we categorize as crafts, but we all seek to find and fulfill ourselves in meaning, whether it’s found in the rhythm of knit and purl, the capture of sunrise in paint, the creation of a garment in exquisite fabrics, the beauty of wood or the joy of music. It is not an extra, it is essential that we can find ignite and nurture that spark of creativity, even if it means stashes of stuff hidden all over the house.
It’s knitting season again. Anyone need a scarf, an afghan?
