A common thread

Great Pause #5

First Cozyblue project: Night Garden

A few months ago, I took my embroidery hoop in hand again after putting it down nearly thirty years ago. I’m not quite sure why I put it aside. Probably something to do with the fact that I was a single mom finishing my degree part time. That I had three kids to shuttle around. And then a new teaching career that asked for more hours than I had in a day.

Embroidery patterns have changed since the 70s and 80s when the patterns leaned towards cute or floral or country. Not really pieces I’d want to spend time on today. But then I found Cozyblue Handmade and Snuggly Monkey and I was hooked all over again. Mandalas and vines and sun, moon, and stars. Oh, my!

My hoop has been a lifeline during this Pause. I stitch and stab and worry about whether or not my leaf stitch is even; I focus on french knots and fly-stitches–with nary a thought of some lurking virus. Or a depleted bank account. Or missed grandchildren.

What’s on my hoop

Embroidery has become a kind of meditation that calms my fear and keeps me smack dab in the moment.

So how serendipitous that Tracy Chevalier’s new novel A Single Thread should offer me the the story of how the magic of needle and thread saves a young woman one stitch at a time.

Violet Speedwell is a “surplus” woman. During the Great War so many young men of marriageable age were killed that in the years that followed, a generation of women watched marriage, children, and independence pass them by. At 38, Violet languished at home with a demanding mother until she made the nearly unheard-of decision to move to a new job in another village … and life on her own.

One day Violet visits Winchester Cathedral on her lunch hour and finds that she has interrupted a service dedicating kneeling cushions created by the Cathedral Broderers*. Violet is drawn in by the prayers and music of the service and drawn to the community of women whose artistry would allow them to leave something of themselves behind.

So Violet befriends one of the younger broderers, manages to get her employer Mr. Waterman to allow her to attend the broderer’s Wednesday morning meetings, and begins to expand her life one stitch at a time. She goes on a summer walking tour alone. Dines out with new-found friends. She expands her role in Mr. Waterman’s office. And at long last stands up to her mother. Violet finds purpose in her work embroidering, while the group of women she meets anchor her.

Violet also finds herself drawn to the Cathedral bell ringers and their own mission. She meets Arthur, for whom bell ringing is just as much his life line as embroidery is hers, and bell ringing and brodering come to bookend the story. Quite literally.

If you are a needle worker, you’ll find the story especially engaging. A Single Thread both transported me to another time and place and connected me to this present moment where I’m grounded stitch-by-stitch.


* the brodery referred to in the novel is canvas needlepoint, not hoop embroidery–but the love of all things needle and thread is constant.

How it works

What I read

There is nothing like a Kate Morton novel to get a reader lost in time and place. Her stories meander, taking twists and turns that never fail to keep me reading into the night. (It’s rather amusing that I still think this way, considering I’m retired. But a lifetime of ‘shoulds’ reels me in still.)

Here’s what Lake House offers you, dear Reader.

There’s a police detective from London, exiled to the countryside because she leaked her doubts about a high-profile case to the press. An elderly mystery writer who tries to bury her past–literally. Babes in arms separated from their mothers. And a murder … or two.

And then there is all the Morton-esque charm. A once-great estate left in haste seventy years earlier. The English countryside with its meadows, woods, and lakes. The ravages of war. Love letters. A village festival. Pear cake. And suitable prospects for the lonely hearts.

I read Kate Morton during the summer … or snuggled on the sofa under a blanket when it’s snowing. She is a holiday kind of read. (See my impressions of two other Morton novels here and here). Before the summer ends, before you’ve transitioned out of vacation and into the bustle of the school year, pick up The Lake House.

What I lived

Last week I went to the Michigan Fiber Festival with friend Denice. She knows I’ve taken up hand-stitching again and that I’m on the prowl for stash bags. Fiber Fest, she said, would be just the place for me to explore new yarns. (Like all good friends, she’s encouraging like that.)

We saw pygora goats and sheep of every kind and alpaca. We watched a sheep dog herd and spinners spin and felters felt. A shearer shear. And I stroked buffalo wool and cashmere and angora. I brought home a bag of alpaca roving that still smells a little of barnyard and a kit to make felted soap that smells nothing of barnyard!

I met a Native American vendor–an elder–who looked at the handful of buffalo roving bits ‘n pieces I held out for her to weigh–I wanted to purchase just a bit to weave into the blankets for my Tiny Mice. She handed back the barely filled bag, and told me to tuck the fiber in my purse. “What the buffalo gives us is free,” she said.

When I came home and tucked my treasures away, I sat down and wrote a poem.

Because that’s how it works.

The livin’ is easy …

What I read

Our book club read this month was Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman. Since we had a few absent members, we met at Panera for discussion and a sweet treat–a little change up from usual. This book club was total serendipity. We first met and organized on a neighborhood social media platform and the mix of women is amazing. We are all pretty much on the same page when it comes to current events, we are a comfortable mix of married, divorced, remarried, and widowed, and our ages are within a decade of each other.

But I digress.

Eleanor Oliphant is a touching character: a survivor of childhood abuse, socially illiterate, and incredibly endearing. (I even wondered aloud if Eleanor might be on the spectrum.) But when this fragile woman with a horrific past meets love and friendship, she finds within herself a strength I think few of us possess. And courageous?! Eleanor comes to realize she must face her tormentor to put the trauma behind her.

Now if I sound cryptic here, I really don’t mean to be. But this is one novel where it might be best to let each reader discover Eleanor as he or she reads the novel, especially since Honeyman makes a style choice that is not revealed until the end of the novel.

It won’t, however, hurt to tell you about Eleanor’s first-ever friend, Raymond, the IT guy at the small graphic design company where she works. Raymond is frumpy–Eleanor dismisses his baggy pants, trainers, mussed hair, and whiskers. But he treats his elderly mom like a queen and is kind to a fault. Which brings us to Eleanor’s second-ever friend, Sammy. Eleanor meets Sammy (if you can call it that) when he collapses on the street outside her office building. She and Raymond come to his aid, staying with Sammy until the ambulance arrives. That ‘stay with him’ part was all Raymond’s doing, though. Eleanor thought Sammy was a drunk, homeless old man and would have stepped right over him in true Eleanor fashion if Raymond hadn’t convinced her they couldn’t leave him. From there, Eleanor, Raymond, and Sammy–and even Sammy’s family–are irrevocably connected.

And it’s in that connection that Eleanor begins to heal.

What I lived

Actually the title of this post is something of a misnomer. Although yesterday was the first day of summer and we are barreling into July at breakneck speed, it could hardly be described as “summer-like” in this Great Lake state. We have had day after day of cloudy skies and rain. Lake levels are at an all-time high and beaches are underwater. And can you say chilly? It’s been one of the coldest, wettest springs on record–and summer isn’t turning out to be much different.

So can you blame a girl for picking up a needle and starting to stitch a little? (Reading goes without saying!) I haven’t done any hand stitching since my children were young when I crafted my little heart out: cross-stitch, basket weaving, doll-making, and more. But by the time my daughter was three, I was working part time–and then it was divorce and back-to-college and all the craziness such life events bring.

I have missed it.

So a few weeks ago I took a hand loom weaving class from Jennifer Haywood of Craftsanity–and although the piece I started in class was an embarrassment (I’ve since unwoven it Penelope-style!) I ordered some yarn stash packages from an Etsy seller, and I’m now weaving my little heart out.

I’ve also stitched four of Ann Wood’s Very Nice Mice with the thought of gifting my granddaughters some cute little friends–with no end of teasing and puzzlement from my daughter and husband. (“So you retire … and start sewing little mice for … what, exactly?!”) But my ideas keep growing. What if I weave each mouse a little bedroll or gunny sack? And this boat is a no-brainer, since don’t the Tiny Mice (as I call them) need some sort of transport for their journey? (Because of course mice such as these are on a journey.) And what if each Tiny Mouse came with a story about who they are and from where they came?

Oh, my. I have surely missed this whole stitching game …