Crochet is a Community

Crochet is a community that is held together with yarns, hooks and love. We thrive on the obsession that pushes us to hook another row before bed, and sometimes wakes us in the middle of the night calling to be advanced one more square. There are men and women, young and old, who can't get enough! We used anything pliable: yarn, string, thread, strips of fabric, fishing line, wire, even plastic grocery bags! We embellish with beads, buttons, bells. There are those who dabble and those who live and breathe crochet. We learn from each other, validate each other, inspire each other. A crocheter is not content without their hook. We can't wait to try a new texture, a new stitch, a new technique. Time is irrelevant when we've got hook in hand, just so long as we're creating.
I learned to crochet from my mother-in-law when I was pregnant with my first child. My first project was a baby blanket, which I brought my new little one home from the hospital in. My other two children also came home wrapped in a blanky made by Mommy. As a new mom, and somewhat of an introvert, I became obsessed with crocheting and made everything from dishcloths to afghans to doilies.
As a new student I don't have much time for crocheting. Christmastime, usually filled with handmade gifts to disperse to my many nieces, sister-in-laws, grandmas, etc., saw only two simple scarves. I miss my crochet community, the sharing secrets and lifting one another's spirits through praising the creativity and patience of each others projects. My hooks have been put away for some time and I don't see them coming out again anytime soon. Yet I look back fondly on this hobby, which seems such a trite term for something that was once a lifeline amidst the monotony of housework that seemed to envelope me in the early years of marriage and childbearing. Priorities for my family took over and I stepped up to the honorable task of raising the babies I bore and bettering myself academically. I feel almost selfish yearning for the hours I spent with hook in hand. On the other hand, it seems as if a part of myself was abandoned in the past. Perhaps, some day, that part of me with come alive again and the satisfaction of placing the last stitch in an afghan will be mine once again.