I’ve spent the last four months wondering if I actually enjoyed fiber arts, or if it had been a coping mechanism for a stressful life.
I can’t announce that I’ve reclaimed my hobby or come to any sort of conclusion about it. In one sense, I think I still enjoy it — and in another sense, it still seems twisted up in stress.
As a related point, I spent 16 years doing tons and tons of cooking. It felt like creative exploration. I liked trying out new recipes and it felt good when something turned out well. But I was also deeply depressed over the hours I spent alone in the kitchen, and I flat out hated the clean up. Of course, there was also the sting whenever a child declared, “That’s disgusting!” and refused to eat. Cue the other parent asserting, “You eat what’s put in front of you,” and I felt responsible for creating more familial discord than harmony, all because I printed a recipe off of the internet.
Then one day when I was standing alone in my kitchen, it struck me that I could not care less about cooking. That same predictable flavor from a can of Bush’s baked beans was more comforting to me than anything I made; no more worrying about whether something turned out too bland or too salty. I realized that I was never getting a dopamine hit from eating — it was all about having a limited number of areas that I was allowed to excel in, and desperately wanting to feel like I was good at something. Plus, there were all the literal hours that I gained back from not slaving over a stove, and I sure enjoy having those.
Which brings us back to fiber arts.
There were a number of months in which I didn’t do any fiber arts at all. Then there were months where I did a burst of fiber arts, and the kids talked me into weaving table runners for all the holidays (except I missed 4th of July). Then four months ago, I … quit. Or rather, took another break from it. Still trying to figure out my head. I’ve been wondering if it’s something that I enjoy, or momentum from a past that feels increasingly disconnected from who I am now.
Who am I now?
Eh I dunno. The question wears on me. Maybe I’m someone who loves TV and hates cooking. One of those inferior stupid people. I really can’t be bothered with seeking enlightenment anymore; it never delivered what it promised anyway.
Now that all of my stressors are increasingly conquerable, I’m wondering if I’ll still reach for a crochet hook when my blood pressure is normal. Is crafting something that I enjoy for it’s own sake? Or was my prior life too limited to explore anything else?
The other day I began a new weaving project. I haven’t felt anything positive or negative about it, just remembering how easy it is to meld into the repetition while time slips away.
Which, I admit, repetition has its own value.
By Autumn Rain 