My studio has overtaken my home. It’s a mess. I usually hate the messiness, but something shifted in these last few weeks. Making me realise it was actually useful.
I had crochet hooks and knitting needles close at hand so I could decide to do either, depending upon the threads I had in my hand - based on the number of strands that made up, or came close to the colour I needed to make into my 5” square pattern.
Laid out open, even though they were carefully placed in holders, the knitting and crochet needles took up considerable space and the crochet hooks would often disappear under a cushion or into a thread bag. I had similar issues with the thread cutter and scissors. Many times, I’d be sitting on them. Always a mystery how they got there!
It was a mess. But, it was a functional mess. Having everything at hand, despite the periodic disappearing acts, served expediency and efficiency. And as I worked with my hands, enacting various mudras to create the fabricated patterns, order was emerging from the chaos. The squares piled up. I blocked them each night and felt satisfied that so was making progress. Each day, I just slipped into that messy space, almost comforted by it, to continue making the squares - adding to the pattern melange.
These mudras may or may not or have the beneficial effects of yogic or dance mudras. But, something happens to the mind and heart, when the hand works in repetitive patterns. Stitching slows the mind down, it allows one to think. Rather, hear oneself think. It also helps me feel what’s going on. Sometimes feelings are intense, they’re hard to fathom and slowing down helps unravel them. The fact that we make something, aids the contemplation. I don’t feel quite so useless, just connecting with myself for most of the day.
In our overly connected world, where there’s just too much out there to assimilate and make sense of, stitching for hours at a stretch helps one feel more grounded in your being. And, I tend to do it for most of the day in silence. No music, no Netflix or Apple TV. It’s when the mind starts going around in circles and I can’t continue to confuse myself, that I switch channels and create some noise in the background. Ostensibly I’m watching TV and do grasp some of what’s going on, but mostly I’m concentrating on what I’m making. And having slept it off, as I journal the next morning having, I begin to make sense of whatever I was ruminating on or feeling. And it goes on and on like so.
It’s rained so hard for the past two months. It was beginning to seem as if the sun had forsaken us altogether. I’ve also been unwell for the last three weeks. It’s been hard. But, I found comfort in my messy studio, where I could work once the fever wore off. Yes, it’s drained me. Yes, the paracetamols have caused havoc with acidity, but I’m recovering.
The pattern melange is also coming along. I’ve crossed the half-way mark, but there’s still a long way to go. However, I have to pack this stuff up to prepare for a multitude of things, a trip to Delhi for care-giving included.
Before I cleared up this mess, I wanted to share how it suddenly dawned on me, that this mess, isn’t unlike the mess I see myself as. The shame and disdain I feel for what I’ve done or not done, for the ignorance, the arrogance and more that fuelled the trajectory of my life this far. Those so-called dysfunctional patterns that subconsciously emerged and determined the course of action I took. But, I’m beginning to realise that they may well be ‘functional’ after all. Like my messy studio creates efficiency and expediency in making the over-sized pattern mélange. There may well be some function to the psychological mess that discomfits my sense of self.
It’s really making me re-think the idea of messiness. It’s helping me feel less of a need to tidy up, to clean up around me or cringe at all the fallen leaves that carpet the lawn, totally eclipsing the grass. And Im also trying not feel so bad about the bamboo trees they thoughtlessly pruned last year because they’re growing back in clumsy clumps. The balletic fronds fluttering elegantly in my window frame, just isn’t the same these days. Their dance is gawky and amateurish and I have been cussing the guys who ordered them cut, ruining my vista of graceful green.
The tall coconut palm that stands a stoic witness to life within and without my window, advises that one must flutter whichever way the wind blows.
Even if it means diving right into the messiness of it all. As Carl Gustav Jung observed “design emerges from amidst the chaos of form” so, there’s hope yet!
