When the ordinary becomes extraordinarily…too much

Broken.

I have a tragic announcement… 

My embroidery stand broke. Just split right in two.  

I was cleaning the hutch, which always develops a bad case of Horizontal-Surface-itis. It is supposed to hold useful-in-the-living-room items, including my embroidery. But people walk by and put down whatever random thing they happen to have in their hand, and then abandon it indefinitely. So was I a little grumpy about cleaning their junk? I was grumpy. 

I was reaching for the rest of the toys/paper airplanes/hair ties/gardening gloves/whatever, when my elbow bumped my embroidery stand. It must have hit the floor exactly wrong, because the solid wood split.

As I stared at the broken pieces, something in me snapped, too. 

You know when little things that just tip over into tragedy? This was my one thing too much. 

The world is falling apart. My kids are needy. There's mud all over the house. The kids won't stop throwing paper airplanes in the living room, which then lay on the floor like a tiny deflated army. And did I mention, the world is falling apart? People are losing their livelihoods, their savings, and their freedom.  

I’ve tried to find the right balance of being aware of the news without letting it flood me, but lately there is no balance. I can hear one teeny tiny thing and immediately see how it will ruin the lives of people I love — and people I don’t know at all but who are equally worthy of love — and just crack a little more.

And sometimes, I’d sit on the couch and stitch. Because of aforementioned chaos, I rarely even manage to sit down and just stitch. I’d stitch during meetings, mostly, or when friends were over but only if our children were not crying, bleeding, or falling in the creek. It takes effort to plan my relaxation, but the repetition is soothing, and yet also thrilling to watch the design emerge under my fingers. Do I want to do another needle of the darker pink, or switch to the next shade? Look how that highlight color transforms the dimension! Just two more needles and I’ll fill this whole space, watch it go! 

My embroidery stand doing its job, back in the days when it was alive. Both designs are mine.

And then, my family was chaotic and my emotions were chaotic and the world was chaotic and my embroidery stand broke.

And I stopped stitching. It’s been weeks.

I could have dug out the old stand that I don’t like as well; I could have stitched while holding the frame; my 5-year-old suggested a woodworking project to fix the stand …but I didn’t want to. I didn’t want not-as-good, I wanted my comfort. There were possible solutions, but that means figuring something out, which is a different brain space than threading a needle and starting. So I didn’t. 

I did nothing, just faded into editing and to-do lists and motherhood. 

But every task sends off a new deluge of sorrow or panic.

Talking with my oldest son about scholarships for college — but what if as soon as he registers for the draft they take him? What if he can’t go to college?

Clearing off the front porch — and imagine forest fires raging down our street, without water in the dams or manpower to fight them.

My kids chatting at dinner about their favorite trips — I took the teens to National Parks when they were younger, but should I drop everything so the younger ones have a chance to go? What if the great forests of the West are gone by the time they are old enough to remember?

My flood doesn’t stop there. I’m distraught about families in Ukraine and Gaza, about ICE and — you probably know all this. This essay isn’t the place for listing all the things to be afraid of, but they’re weighing on me.

I truly believe that the small things matter. That we can support each other and hold on to what is right. That our despair only serves the purposes of those who wish to harm us. I wanted to become a writer to share the stories of people who are marginalized, to normalize different kinds of love, to provide a model for healthy relationships. I truly and deeply believe that the stories we hear frame our awareness of the world, and that I am writing something that can do good in the world.

…But that logic is in my head. My heart has been having a hard time with it all.

In these last few weeks, I’ve also had a book launch. My original goal was to publish three novellas in this series, and this was the third. But instead of feeling excited, I only felt a dull panic, going through all the steps (there are so many steps!) and worrying that I had missed some detail, that the story wasn’t right, and most importantly…it doesn’t matter anyhow. 

My silly little stories aren’t going to help the families who are pulled apart. It’s not going to stop the real and metaphorical bombs from going off. It’s not even going to pay for our family’s groceries. 

Now is the point when I should explain why it’s all meaningful. How my stitching nourishes my writing which nourishes the world, and maybe some nice anecdote about someone else confirming how much my art means to them — embroidery, writing, either, both, whatever.

I can think of lots of excellent endings for this article, but they all involve people whom I do not control, making decisions they are not making, so I’m stuck with figuring out how to navigate a reality I didn’t ask (or vote) for. 

And I sink inward. Back into my home. Back toward things I can control. 

My husband got home from a long business trip, so I embraced  a weekend with a few hours to myself. The sun has come out, and the daffodils have too, and I’ve taken some time to admire them and breathe the wind. 

Sunshine and me. While running errands, I stopped at a bakery and had a bowl of soup. By myself. ALL by myself.

I don’t know whether to feel hopeful or guilty for feeling hopeful, but the dogs want to play with me and the kids want to talk to me, so I just keep on going.

And in news that I can control, I ordered a new embroidery stand.

Actually…

I ordered two of them.