Stitches

“You can’t use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have.”
Maya Angelou

I grew up aware of — but not especially interested in — my mum’s creative pursuits: sewing, knitting, and even a bit of woodworking. The jumpers were itchy, I didn’t care much for dresses, and I was far more interested in whatever was in the kitchen cupboards. But what stayed with me was the care and intention behind it all.

Carpentry aside, there’s a quiet kind of magic and a lot of love in taking a flat piece of fabric or a strand of yarn and turning it into something useful, beautiful — or ideally, both. Whether it’s a gift, a form of self-care, or a small act of eco-warrior rebellion (“I turned this second-hand sheet into something new”), making is both a skill and a service.

Sewing has a learning curve, but it teaches more than just technique. It’s taught me about cutting corners (and why that’s sometimes a bad idea), about patience, and about choosing when to follow instructions and when to go my own way. Every project hits that point where it looks like a disaster — the colours clash, the fit’s off, nothing feels right. But I’ve learned to keep going, because it always gets better, and there’s always a lesson worth learning at the end.

It’s also taught me restraint. I don’t need twenty-five patterns for barrel-legged trousers. Six more hours of scrolling won’t uncover a hidden, perfectly-fitting design from a little-known indie pattern maker. And no — more fabric won’t make me a more productive sewer.

It’s easy to get stuck in the cycle of planning instead of doing, telling ourselves more research means better results. But real progress comes from trying, failing, and adapting. Fortunately, in sewing — as in life — if something truly doesn’t work, you can always cut it into smaller pieces and quilt it. A bit of a metaphor for mindfulness: even on the worst, horrible, no-good day, there’s usually something in the mess that’s still worth salvaging.