When I first learned to crochet many years ago, it was as if a line had been drawn – a demarcation between my former life and my new life. Life with crochet. That’s how much I loved it. That’s how much it meant to me. And still does. (A similar thing happened when I first learned to read; Worlds opened, I passed through, and everything was changed forever.)
I haven’t crocheted in over ten months. We were too busy with work and life, and my hook (along with a piece of my heart,) was set aside. But last week, after clearing the kitchen and draping the dishtowel back over the oven door, I pulled a ball of yarn and a hook from the shelf, and crocheted a hexagon. At least, I tried to. I’m still not sure what the shape was, but it was a good effort for having misplaced all my skills in the intervening months.
I tried again. This second attempt yielded a hexagon. An accurate one, with the right number of stitches per side and corner. (Because I’m so rusty I actually needed to count.)
Crocheting this humble hexagon felt as good as a new spring day. Hopeful and pretty. I don’t know what I have in mind to do as a small crochet project. Perhaps another hexagon table runner. I do love those. Or maybe I’ll feel inspired to pick up one of three unfinished, but much-loved, projects. They deserve some attention.
I do know it feels wonderful to have my hook in hand again.
‘Till next time.