Teaching Momma New Tricks?

I remember when the first boy went off to college. I no longer had to jockey work, tending to the littlest, feeding scores of teenagers who would pop in, and making it to soccer games - He was in THREE different leagues! All of that running around came to a crashing halt.

I was free. I was bored. I was bummed. What in the world was I going to do with all of my newfound free time? Travel? Nope. I still had one at home and a new expense of college life. Continue my education? Too expensive. Volunteer my time?  I still worked full time and needed to be home for the tween and my ailing father. Start working out?  Yeah, that came and went.

So what?  I was beginning to go stir crazy and honestly I was getting depressed.

Within the second year of my partial empty nesting blues, I lost my dad and my oldest friend, within weeks of each other and within the walls of the same Hospice facility.  I was numb. My boredom became my safe space where I could hide from the world. No one could see my pain and I did not have to fake it beyond working hours. Although in hindsight, I wasn't faking it there either.

I have no idea how many weeks or months of this hiding continued.  Sure I went to counseling to deal with the daily grief, but I didn't address me, my loss, my feeling abandoned by three people that I loved.  Sure, my college child did not abandon me nor did those who had died.  I still had my youngest at home, a great man in my life with two amazing girls I called my own, albeit long distance, and other amazing friends. But I was at a loss.  I was lost.

Then one weekend, I was on my own.  The littlest was off with his father.  The man was in his far away home. College boy was camping with friends. I started my Saturday with a call to my friend out west. We would talk for hours while we shopped, cleaned, or just watched tv. She was and always has been that slap in the face of reality when you need it, and today was like no other day.

She hassled me, and not always so nicely, until I was up, dressed, and in my car. The next thing I knew I was in front of a craft store, with a cart.  She had not told me to come here, but subliminally I could hear both she and my therapist nagging me to "get a hobby" if nothing else.

For the next few hours, I walked around the craft store, with her in my ear, determined to find a hobby.  I mean that's what craft stores had, right?  Stuff people did for hobbies was all over.  It couldn't be that hard.  But it was.  I walked up and down every aisle contemplating this and that.  I could make wreaths again, but how many of those did I really need.  I could start painting but all of the adult paint by numbers were stupid to me.  Candy making? Scrapbooking? It was actually close to torture.  How could I be the only woman that could not find a craft in a craft store?

And then it happened. On my second round through the store I was struck by the vibrant colors and textures coming from yarn.  Yup.  YARN. I never imagined that there could be so many different kinds.  I mean both my mom and grandmother handmade things from yarn when I was younger and it all itched and smelled funny.  Little did we know then that I was allergic to the wool yarns they used.

But today, it was soft and fuzzy.  Calming.  The yarn somehow made me smile and rekindled memories of a much much younger me sitting on my grandmother's lap.  She would show me how to crochet.  She would encourage me and praise me in her quiet Arkansas accent.  It was safe.  It was comforting. And for the first time in a long time, I felt light.

I shared all of this out loud with my friend in my ear as it was unfolding and soon my phone began to ding in my ear amidst eager encouragement.  "You found it!" "Buy the yarn!" "I sent you videos. You can totally do this!"

I, along with her, watched a few snippets and knew I could relearn what my grandmother had tried to share with me and maybe, if I was any good, learn even more.

The basket was soon filled with the softest, most soothing colors. Together, via phones and internet, we determined the needles to accompany the luxurious threads.  And soon I was making my way home with bags of these lush treasures.

While I am not some amazing crocheting queen, it did help with my anxiety.  The joy in creating something new for someone I love and the thrill of seeing them delight in receiving a handmade gift would momentarily lift the notes of sadness until eventually I found I could do more things without feeling stuck.  

It was a start to coming out from under. Who knew that creating blankets for others could help me uncover the first steps back to my peace?