First Loves Are Foundational: The Discovery of Creativity

I have been obsessed with needlecraft and the written word since I was old enough to talk. I lived for evening story time and wondered over the scribbled lines on the page that seemed to tell my mother what to say each night. I memorized the stories she read and thought that, once I had learned them and begun reciting them, I was reading, too.

I thought that maybe I could write stories of my own if only I had a pen and paper. I believed that the act of scrawling loops and lines onto a page would eventually manifest into something readable which I could share, like the books my mother read, over and over again.

So, much to the dismay of the adults in my life, I began collecting (stealing) notebooks and pencils from every drawer I could open, and also began begging for the little pads I saw in the office section of the gas stations we would visit.

It didn't matter how much paper I had; I always needed more.

On the evenings my single mother would bring me with her to her restaurant job, she would sit me in the corner booth that customers seemed to avoid because it was next to the swinging door of the kitchen. Maybe that's also why it didn't get cleaned as often or as well. My thighs always stuck to the seat and my arms to the tabletop as if somebody had tried to wipe spilled soda away with an already too-dirty rag.

I spent my time in that booth just doodling away. Between visits from her server friends, I filled my notebooks with 'stories' which I hoped one day I would be able to read back to myself.

I even pretended that I could. I would confidently open my notebook with anyone who would listen and ask, "Do you want me to read you a story?" Some of them would sit and patiently pretend that the tale I was spinning on the spot was, in fact, being read from the pages of my unreadable scratch marks.

When somebody did suggest that I wasn't actually reading or writing, I became indignant.

I filled innumerable notebooks, from margin to margin and cover to cover, with 'stories' that I would ever be able to read twice. But it didn't matter. The act of 'writing' made me feel like I was creating something, and I became addicted to that feeling.

I believe that's why needlecraft entered the picture.

Hedwig, my German immigrant great-grandmother, was a stern figure in my early memories and her hands seemed always to be moving. I'd sit and watch two weapon-ish metal knitting needles clacking together, separated only by the abundant fabric which seemed to grow magically between them, and I was completely mesmerized.

The idea that a person could create something out of nothing like this – transform single threads into curtains, pillowcases, and clothing – was metamorphic.

The next time we went to a gas station, it wasn't just another pad of paper that I'd beg for, but a little travel sewing kit, too.

The 'writing' I did wasn't real without an audience, so on the evenings my mother left me home with a disinterested babysitter instead of bringing me to work, I started sewing.

I don't know how it's possible that I remember the first time I threaded a needle, but I do.

My mother was at work, the babysitter was downstairs watching TV, and I was up in my room with dried-out markers, empty pads of paper, and this sewing kit. I sat in a night shirt and underwear, and remember the carpet was scratchy. It stuck to me the way only cheaply manufactured carpet does, and it seems that I was constantly trying to wipe it away.

I didn't know how to sew or what I would make with the little kit, but when I unlatched the plastic catch, it made a satisfying click which seemed to say, "Go!" like a shot at the start of a race. I did my best to force the little frayed thread ends through the eye of a very small needle, but it was a difficult task. Despite what felt like hours of frustration, I persisted, and eventually got the thread-end through the needle-eye. By the time I did, the thread was heavy and wet with spit.

What then? Well, the most reasonable next step was to put my hands on some fabric. There was lots of that in my dresser drawers. Of course, it was fabric that had already been made into clothing, but a little decoration couldn't hurt, I thought.

So I began pushing the needle up and down through the fabric of a t-shirt. The final result was a bunched and puckered patch of fabric in the middle of the shirt. It looked like a detective's evidence board and a crumpled up paper towel had a baby and I thought it was pretty much the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

My mother did not.

After this event, I was only allowed to sew on clothing that nobody would ever see – things like night shirts or old clothes that would be turned into rags.

This was a pivotal moment. I was no stranger to staying small, quiet, and hidden, but this was the first time I had felt shame around something I had created. My takeaway was that my mother deemed these clothing alterations ugly to look at. Or at least, she worried that other people would. She was very intent on carefully crafting the way people saw her as a mother, and in her mind, me wearing what might be perceived as "messy" clothing would certainly impact how people saw her.

My love for writing and needlecraft continued to bloom, but in the dark. I was sheepish about sharing and even went so far as to, at times, reject my creative interests altogether.

No matter what I tried, though, I just couldn't quit my crafts.

To be continued ... check back tomorrow for another edition of this episodic series within a series that tells the tales of how my persistent cultivation of creativity led to some unbelievable opportunities and experiences, and how I overcame defeating disappointments that made me want to quit again and again ...