It’s a pretty dramatic statement but it’s true.
When I was at my lowest point suffering from anxiety and depression, there was nothing that would lift me out of a very dark place. Nothing gave me pleasure. I felt anxious, sad and lower than I would ever have possibly imagined.
When I was a small girl I used to stay every so often with Helen. Helen was deaf and lived on her own. When the doorbell rang she had a light bulb in every room that lit up. I loved learning about her world.
Helen had a passion for sewing and her home was filled with beautiful things she had made. It was Helen who taught me the art of Traditional Patchwork, otherwise known as English Paper Piecing.
Little remnants of precious fabric that she had held onto, stitched onto paper hexagons and then sewn together with a small whipstitch. It is time consuming, and if you are quick it might take a year to make a quilt. But that doesn’t matter. It’s the process that is so beautiful.
It was January when I began sewing again. A dark cold month exacerbated by my illness. I sat on my sofa and stitch by stitch I felt I could breath again. Slowly and carefully, patch by patch sewing together all of those precious remnants. It was life-giving. It was life-saving.