Elizabeth Fishel shares how she became interested in embroidery.
Fifteen years ago, a good friend taught me how to do needlepoint. She patiently showed me the way to finesse the careful, repetitive and oddly calming stitching. The canvases were like paint-by-numbers in yarn – geometrics, hearts, flowers of all hues. Even a non-artist like me could follow the designs and create vibrant images that might become pillows or wall hangings or eye-glass cases for sisters-in-law.
“This will get you all the way through watching the NBA play-offs,” my mentor confided. Well, that was back in the glory days when the Golden State Warriors made it to the endless weeks and months of the Finals, but ever since, my hobby has woven its threads through some of the lows and highs of my life.
After the divisive 2016 election, I stitched away my despair as I watched the evening news. My needle’s staccato bursts became a release valve for my frustration, a kind of therapy. I understood when the owner of my favorite San Francisco needlepoint shop reported that business was spiking as people needed an outlet for their feelings.
In 2020, when the pandemic kept us homebound and overwhelmed, my husband and I sat side-by-side on the couch, girding ourselves for the latest Covid 19 statistics – and crafting. He took up knitting again to join me, so while I stitched, he knit – blankets, hats, endlessly unspooling scarves.